


Like the Summer Sunshine

by Sass_Master



Series: Dream of Now [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Dean in Panties, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Gentle Dom Castiel, Hand Feeding, Human Castiel, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Panty Kink, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sub Dean, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sass_Master/pseuds/Sass_Master
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Have you ever tried baklava?” Cas asks, voice dipping low, a suggestive lilt to his words.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>“No,” Dean says slowly. “Is it any good?”</em> </p><p>  <em>Cas fixes him with a very intent look. “I think you’ll like it.” </em></p><p>  <em>And for Dean, that’s assurance enough. He’s definitely game.</em></p><p> </p><p>When Dean jets off to Europe with Cas, he gets a much-needed vacation from hunting – and his insecurities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Summer Sunshine

Dean might feign bravado (or modesty, depending on the circumstances) but he can’t fully deny that he’s dealt with some truly terrifying shit in his life. He’s faced off against the kind of things most people are content to think only exist in their nightmares – vampires, demons, _goddamn_ _Satan himself_. This – this should _not_ be a big deal by _any_ stretch of the imagination, but being crammed into a tiny seat in coach, flight attendants patiently assisting others with overhead luggage, has him fuckin’ _rattled_. He’s trying to play it cool, to control his breathing, surreptitiously dragging his sweaty palms across the fabric of his jeans, and he _really_ hopes his agitated humming isn’t loud enough for the other passengers to hear.

He damn near flinches at the sudden roar of a jet engine passing overhead, making a conscious effort to tune it out and focus on his surroundings instead. A toddler a few rows up seems to be on the verge of a tantrum, by the sound of it, and Dean’s hopes for a relaxing flight manage to drop to below zero. Meanwhile, someone just over his shoulder, probably the pasty looking guy in the ill-fitting suit he saw earlier, is coughing with worrying persistence. Dean thinks longingly of the hand sanitizer in his carry-on, but it’s stored securely above his head and he’s rooted to the spot, seatbelt tight as he can get it without damaging any internal organs. Across the aisle, a college girl is barreling through an exuberant, last-minute phone call before take-off – he catches snippets of it through the parade of passengers ambling through, scanning for seat numbers, as he tries to keep his toes clear of rolling luggage. It’s not exactly the most pleasant environment, sure, but _still_ , it’s all so mundane it should be practically _insulting_ , given the things he’s been through.

It’s fucking _ridiculous_ , is what it is, that the recycled air in the plane’s cabin should having him feeling closer to suffocating than he can ever remember experiencing, and he’s been to actual _hell_. He realizes he must be muttering out loud about how _goddamn fucking ridiculous this is, it’s just a plane, Dean, you’ve literally stopped an apocalypse before_ , because suddenly  reassuring fingers trail over his knuckles, coaxing him into releasing his death-grip on the armrest and steady his shaking hand in a firm grasp. Dean snaps out of it, falling silent, sees how the tremors have mostly subsided at Cas’s touch. He finds Cas’s eyes, which watch him with such intense, unselfish concern that he’s not sure if he’s calmed or further overwhelmed by the scrutiny.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Cas asks after studying him intently for a moment, his thumb gently stroking the back of Dean’s hand. “We don’t have to do this.”

Dean takes in the soothing cadence of Cas’s voice – careful, but never condescending – and decides that it _is_ comforting, right now, to let Cas focus this kind of attention on him, make sure he’s holding up okay. Responding to Cas’s worries with honesty on _his_ end has always been something of a trick, but trying has never failed to pay off so far.

He takes a slow breath and lets it out in a huff, impatient with himself. “It’s fuckin’ stupid,” he eventually mumbles, the minute sting of humiliation sitting bitterly in his gut, but he forces himself to work past it. “There is no goddamn _logical reason_ for me to freak out over this,” he hisses, irritation lacing every rushed syllable.

His outburst hangs in the air for a beat, and he stares at his lap, almost too embarrassed with himself, temporarily, to even register any fear. Cas doesn’t let go of his hand as he shifts in his seat, turning to face Dean more fully.

“Phobias aren’t rational, Dean,” Cas tells him, consolingly. It’s nothing Dean hasn’t tried telling himself a hundred times, but he appreciates the sentiment, and it seems more believable coming from someone other than himself.

Unfortunately, it’s not quite enough to completely settle his nerves – Cas’s fingers protectively enfolding his, though, that’s a start. Dean holds on even more tightly, takes a couple of deep breaths, and tries to concentrate on Cas’s steady presence beside him. He knows a few stiff drinks or some definitely-legally-obtained prescription meds would go a long way towards taking the edge off, but he doesn’t want to send Cas the wrong message about dealing with emotional distress. He still hasn’t forgotten about that _alternate future_ Castiel, the one who tried to find relief from the pains of humanity at the bottom of a pill bottle, or whatever else he could get his hands on. Even then Dean had known that he’d prefer it if Cas never ended up as that guy, but now the thought is more devastating than he cares to admit. Maybe that’s an irrational fear, too, but it’s not one he’s willing to take any chances on. Besides, it wouldn’t exactly hurt for him to learn healthier coping mechanisms, himself. He may be painfully sober, but he’s got Cas here with him, and that’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.

“I’m fine,” he says, aiming for nonchalant and missing spectacularly. He almost tacks on a cavalier, _It’s not going to kill me_ except it _could_ , couldn’t it, this damn thing could fall out of the sky and no amount of can-do attitude or scrappy improvisation would save him then. Gravity doesn’t give one fuck about how well Dean handles a shotgun. Cas looks unconvinced, so Dean clenches his jaw and tries again, scrambling for another platitude and landing on honesty instead. “I want to do this.”

Because if nothing else, that part’s definitely true, even if he’d strongly prefer to not get air travel involved. Cas, however, had seemed pretty gung-ho about the prospect. All day Dean’s been catching snippets of Cas murmuring about his fascination with planes ( _what an impressive feat of human ingenuity, and to think that flight is only a recent innovation, historically speaking_ ) and he’d eagerly snatched up the window seat when they boarded – not that Dean was about to fight him for it. Dean tries not to dwell too long on what might motivate Cas’s enthusiasm, why a plane might appeal to Cas, who used to be able to jump hemispheres in milliseconds on wings too magnificent for puny human eyes to behold. There’s probably some deeper, spiritual significance to this whole experience for Cas. Then again, that hasn’t stopped him from frequently complaining – about needing coffee, having to wait to _finally_ get on their flight, the egregious lack of leg-room. Cas plays the part of a run-of-the-mill human just fine when it suits him.

So, sure, Dean wants to do this for Cas’s sake, but he’s got his own reasons, too – he can admit there’s a part of him that’s itching to get out of the continental U.S. for once in his life. And even if the idea of it is, yeah, _fucking terrifying_ , he’s been learning that powering through the stuff that throws him off balance can be incredibly rewarding in the end. Dean figures there’s got to be a hell of an experience waiting on the other side of the fear.

Cas considers him for a moment, and must find the sincerity and determination in his eyes. “If you’re sure,” he says with a gentle smile, giving Dean’s hand a final squeeze before letting go – Dean knows Cas is giving him the chance to get it together on his own, and he’s grateful that Cas understands him well enough to do that.

But despite Dean’s internal attempts to rally himself, take-off’s still a little rough. He starts up the humming again, something mindless that he doesn’t realize is “Don’t Stop Me Now,” until he hears Cas humming along next to him, dividing his attention between Dean and the rapidly retreating land through the window. The gesture of solidarity helps Dean’s nerves more than he expected, and he manages to make it through the ascent without causing a scene.

But even with the worst part over, the anxiety’s not dissipating the way Dean had hoped it would once they were airborne. It hasn’t escalated, thankfully, but it’s reached a plateau that has him restless, trying and failing to get comfortable, settle into some music or a magazine or _anything_ to entertain himself and _Christ how long is this flight again?_

He can feel Cas radiating uncertainty from the next seat, probably torn between the urge to check in with Dean and the concern that he’ll piss Dean off by worrying too much. By Dean’s sixth agitated sigh, it’s obvious Cas can’t ignore him anymore. He lets out a sigh of his own as he turns and shifts closer to Dean, stopping Dean’s jostling leg with a firm hand on his knee. “I hate seeing you distressed like this,” he says, absolute in his sincerity, catching Dean’s gaze and holding it steadily. “Isn’t there anything I can do to help get your mind off of things?” he asks, the hand on Dean’s leg inching up his thigh just the barest amount – probably meant as nothing more than an innocent, soothing gesture – before returning to his knee.

Dean tracks the movement of Cas’s fingers – it’s not even approaching PG-13 in terms of physical contact, but it’s enough to get him thinking, forcing a laugh and cracking a joke. “Not unless you’re suggesting we join the mile high club,” he says, managing a faltering smirk. He’s sure that Cas wasn’t coming onto him – his intentions are usually _incredibly_ transparent in those situations – and he figures the reference will sail right past him either way.

He watches Cas, expecting his eyebrows to knit together in confusion at any moment, but instead they’re slowly creeping towards his hairline as a look of surprise appears on Cas’s face. Cas leans in closer and lowers his voice, sounding nothing short of _intrigued_ when he asks, “You want to?” and shit, oh yeah, Cas _gets stuff like that now._

Dean’s momentarily stunned into silence. It was nothing but a cheesy, throwaway remark, and even if Cas does, apparently, know what he’s talking about, he didn’t expect Cas to be so _receptive_ to the idea. Of course, serious suggestion or not, just the _thought_ of Cas’s hands on him is serving as a pleasant distraction. He can already see Cas, ever the strategist, covertly scoping out the bathroom stall and scanning the aisle for staff.

When Cas catches his eye again, he makes up his mind and plasters on a salacious grin, gets a little thrill when Cas meets it with one of his own, his hand wandering up Dean’s thigh, this time with unmistakable intent. It’s probably a _terrible_ plan all around, but if he’s going to be hurtling through the sky in a metal death trap, he can’t really think of a better way to pass the time. It’s motivation enough to get him out of his seat, and that’s saying something.

Getting them both into the stall without drawing attention is more difficult than Dean had hoped, and it’s exceedingly obvious that the space is not designed to fit two grown men of their size. Dean’s about to call the whole thing off – even making an attempt has taken his thoughts away from the fear, at least for a little while, so it won’t be a total loss – but then Cas is dragging him into a kiss, his hands are _everywhere_ , and he’s murmuring a litany of endearments and filth into Dean’s ear, driving him out of his head and then over the edge with a ruthless efficiency that leaves him honest-to-god weak-kneed. Dean needs a moment to put his brain back together before he’s composed enough to even try to return the favor.

By the time they make it back to their seats, still a bit breathless and pink-faced, Dean can tell by the knowing and vaguely annoyed look from the flight attendant that they were even less subtle than he thought. Apparently, she decides it’s in everyone’s best interest to just pretend that nothing unusual has taken place, although Dean can sense the awkwardness when she comes by to offer them a beverage. Dean feels a slight pang of guilt for that, but it’s not enough to bring him down entirely, not even close.

He’d thought that once the adrenaline from doing a private thing in a less-than-private setting wore off, the nervousness would be waiting in the wings, ready to rush back full force. However, while it _is_ there, a minor presence humming below the surface of his awareness, he can already sense it being overpowered by more agreeable feelings. Maybe that whole mile high club thing _was_ an accidental suggestion, and a somewhat misguided one to follow through on, but it did a lot more for him than Xanax ever could. Cas takes his hand again, and Dean smiles at him, much more relaxed now, his eyelids growing heavy as his near-sleepless night – restless with worry over the upcoming flight – starts to catch up with him. He leans into Cas, warm and solid beside him, and before he knows it he’s drifting off on Cas’s shoulder, letting his mind wander to thoughts of having Cas all to himself in a hotel room for a week.

He’s disoriented when Cas wakes him up for lunch, but he manages to mostly squash down the rising panic when he remembers where he is, and focuses on his meal. It’s crappy airline food, but with his nerves settling he’s realizing he’s fucking _starving_. He and Cas pass some time watching movies – a low-brow comedy that’s worse than Dean expected, an animated ‘family’ film that’s miles better, and finally an episode of some documentary series, at Cas’s suggestion. It sounds agonizingly boring, but Cas is insistent, and when Dean feels his eyelids drooping again, he vaguely notes that that may have been the purpose of Cas’s choice.

Both of them wake up in time for the descent (turns out Cas didn’t find behind-the-scenes footage of _cement production_ particularly riveting either) and the ‘ding’ of the seatbelt light has Dean’s heart racing again. He makes the decision to reach for Cas’s hand this time – Cas always reminds him that it’s not showing weakness to accept this kind of help, or ask for it when Cas is, obligingly, not being pushy about offering it.

Dean makes it out of the plane in one piece, and he doesn’t even have to battle a demon to ensure his survival this time. He glances at Cas, who’s squinting against the rising sunlight outside the airport, and he feels a striking sense of accomplishment. Dean finds both of their sunglasses in their bags, and Cas beams at him when he hands his pair over. Dean can’t help but smile back, anxious to get to the _good_ part of this whole adventure, now that the unpleasant part’s over with. Well, over with until the return flight, anyway, but he’s smart enough to put that out of his mind and _enjoy_ himself for once. He’s on _vacation_ , for god’s sake.

When he’d finally vocalized the urge to get away for a while, it was actually Charlie who stepped up and delivered. Apparently she “knew a guy” – a guy who didn’t mind sketchy looking passports – who could hook them up with a decent, affordable hotel room in the Greek islands. The legitimacy of it all seemed a little suspect to Dean, but he wasn’t really one to judge. Cas seemed to like the idea of going to Greece, and Dean didn’t know enough about world travel to have an opinion one way or the other. The thought of going by _plane_ definitely gave Dean pause, made him consider a getaway somewhere a bit closer to home, but even he had to admit that the Greek islands _might_ have something to offer that Middle America didn’t. He just hoped that that ‘something’ didn’t include an angry mob of vengeful gods, because Cas had convinced him it wasn’t in their best interest to try getting a wooden stake through airport security.

A week away with Cas might be worth it regardless. They’d recently been apart for an amount of time that was not only unexpected, but unprecedented since they’d made their relationship more or less ‘official.’ Incidents out of Chicago kept popping up on the team’s radar, and with no greater ominous threats currently looming, no one could ignore the whole _warring monster mafias_ situation for much longer. Dean  had figured he and Sam were the best candidates to check it out (not to mention it felt like unfinished Winchester business), leaving Charlie and Cas to take care of any small potato hunts that might arise elsewhere. The whole Chicago deal went on for longer and got far more involved than anyone anticipated, and it was weeks before everyone was gathered, more or less safe and sound, back at the bunker. Dean and Cas had kept in constant contact – Cas perfecting the art of dirty texting, pictures and everything, had proven to be a _highly_ successful endeavor – but it hadn’t made up for the fact that Dean had missed Cas like _crazy_. He may have even caved and told Cas as much one or seventeen times, when Sam was out of earshot.

Dean had decided that he was through with pining at this point in his life – if he wanted some time alone with Cas, he was going to get it. The separation had been difficult, but it was Dean’s hope that a private getaway would make up for lost time.

After a cab ride, a ferry from the mainland, and _another_ cab ride, Cas and Dean finally arrive at their hotel. It’s not quite five-star, but it’s infinitely nicer than Dean was expecting under the circumstances. The bed certainly looks inviting, and Dean’s more than a little interested in the luxurious, big-enough-for-two bathtub he spots when he pokes his head into the bathroom. He only opens the curtains for long enough to notice that they’ve got a hell of a view – looking out onto sparkling turquoise water and cheerful white houses across the way – before closing them, deciding that it’s early enough to settle into a nap without completely ruining their sleep schedule. He finds the bed just as comfy as it looks, but that may have more to do with how exhausted he is than the quality of the mattress. It might also have something do with Cas holding him close, the warm palm of his hand slipping under the hem of Dean’s shirt, settling against his belly. Dean’s nodding off in no time.

Cas coaxes him out of bed a while later with the promise of a late breakfast at the café around the corner, and they don’t think twice about snagging a table outside. Despite his growling stomach, Dean’s skeptical about some of the less familiar looking items on offer. But Cas implores him to at least _try_ everything, and Dean finds that he’s pleasantly surprised. Cas has an annoying habit of being right sometimes. He and Cas take leisurely sips of their coffee – different than what Dean’s used to, but better than anything he’s had at back-road diners in the states – and although they’re only a few hours into their trip, Dean’s already starting to think this is pretty freakin’ _awesome_ , even just sitting here people-watching with Cas, relaxing with each deep inhale of the salty breeze. It’s a clear, gorgeous day, and Dean finds his gaze lingering on the nearby shoreline. The beautiful white sand is populated by even _more_ beautiful people, and Dean realizes he’s more tempted by the idea of spending a day at the beach – getting some sun and finding out if the water’s as enjoyable to swim in as it is to look at – than he’d expected.

“I’m starting to wish we brought bathing suits,” he admits to Cas, without turning away from the sea. Even through his peripheral vision, he can see that Cas is looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“You seemed awfully certain that they wouldn’t be necessary,” Cas reminds him, arching an eyebrow. “On an _island_ ,” he adds teasingly, taking another sip of coffee.

Dean presses his lips together in indignation, though it’s not as if Cas is wrong. But, to be fair, Dean’s used to packing only absolute essentials and hell, he doesn’t even _own_ a bathing suit. It’s not like he’s ever considered himself a beach person. He hasn’t exactly had the luxury to be, or even the geographical proximity, most of the time, but he’s always sort of understood the appeal (and he’s understanding it more by the second). So he did _think_ about it, at least, but it wasn’t much of a priority. “Yeah, well,” he drawls, already hoping to deflect from his lack of foresight, “The way I was picturing it, we’d barely be leaving the hotel room,” he says, aiming for casual, but he tears his eyes away from the water to look meaningfully at Cas.

“I’m sure we’ll get our money’s worth out of our reservation.” Cas replies. To his credit, he only barely cracks a smile, but his eyes flash in a way that makes Dean want say screw the beach, and employ his original plan as soon as possible. “But if we wanted to stay in bed all day, we could do that at home.”

Dean sighs, wanting to keep arguing just on principle, but he knows Cas is right – and yep, that is definitely a really, _really_ annoying habit.

Cas drains his coffee cup and continues. “There must be a store nearby that sells swimwear,” he says, reaching for his wallet and fishing out a few Euros to leave on the table.

Dean’s suddenly weirdly uncomfortable, feels a protest rising before he can stop it, “It’s fine, Cas, we don’t have to do that, I should’ve—”

“Dean,” Cas cuts him off in that stern, commanding way that never fails to get Dean’s attention, laying his hand on Dean’s forearm. “If you want to go to the beach, then we’ll go. I know you’re in the habit of… denying yourself,” – Dean looks at him sharply at that comment, which Cas ignores – “But I can’t do that. You’re here to enjoy yourself. I want that for you.”

Dean’s discomfort only increases, in that surreal not-quite-bad way it does when Cas pulls shit like this, focuses on him with such intensity, distracts Dean from his less than constructive reflexes, reminds him that he matters. He feels a heat rushing to his face that has nothing to do with the midday sun, and he forces out a dismissive, “Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, we’ll look around,” knowing he sounds like a bit of an asshole, but that Cas understands him well enough to see through his bullshit.

Cas squeezes his arm and smiles at Dean in a way that has Dean’s cheeks burning even hotter, especially when his other hand reaches forward to brush a stray crumb from the corner of Dean’s mouth. Then Cas is up and off to who-knows-where, and Dean takes a moment to collect himself before following.

Finding a retailer – a modest boutique not far from their hotel – turns out to be easy, but Dean’s a bit… _taken aback_ by the selection. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, scanning the array of unexpectedly _skimpy_ swimwear.

Cas looks at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Dean looks at the rack, where the least scandalous looking offering is some tiny trunks, and then back to Cas, horrified incredulity creeping into his voice. “Well they’re a little… _revealing_ , don’t you think?” Dean asks, feeling slightly hysterical, but Cas just frowns at him like he has no idea what Dean’s talking about. “We can’t—” he stops himself, noticing his ranting is attracting attention, lowers the volume and tries again. “You really expect me to wear something like that? Outdoors? With _other people_ _around_?”

“Why not?” Cas asks, as if Dean is being unreasonable or something. “This is what everyone else is wearing.”

“Since when does Mr. Rebel go for all that conformity crap?” Dean asks, jumping at the opportunity to try to change the subject, but Cas is already rifling through some pairs of navy blue shorts.

“It was my understanding that humans want to avoid looking like tourists when traveling abroad,” he says calmly, checking for sizes.

Dean scoffs at that, but Cas doesn’t seem to be dissuaded. “You know, word to the wise, Cas, if you wanna fit in, you could stop referring to people as ‘humans.’ That shit sounds _weird_ , man, it’s like you wandered out of X-Files or something. I keep expecting Mulder and Scully to show up and start asking questions.”

Cas briefly stops in his search, humming thoughtfully. “You would enjoy that, though, wouldn’t you?” he says knowingly, and Dean’s not sure if Cas is referring to his appreciation for the show itself or his teenage infatuation with the actors.

“Not if it meant the government was after you,” he replies, and when Cas smiles at him he realizes he’s accidentally said something fond.

Cas’s grin only widens as he shoves a pair of trunks into Dean’s hands. “You’re trying these on.”

Dean rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Fine, _bossy_ ,” and seeks out the dressing room. He’s dismayed to discover that there’s barely any privacy, just one small ‘room’ and a flimsy curtain, practically in the middle of the store. A nearby employee throws them a disapproving look when Cas tries to follow Dean inside, so Cas urges Dean on and waits his turn.

Dean glares at the scrap of spandex in his hand, feeling put out. He did _not_ sign up for this. This option might be a step up from the Speedos or actual _thongs_ he’d seen on the sales floor, but that’s not saying much. He’s seconds from storming out and declaring the beach overrated when he catches sight of his petulant face in the mirror, and hesitates. A voice in the back of his head (that sounds an awful lot like Charlie) reminds him that he may be letting his overcompensatory “macho” attitude get in his own way again, and for the sake of his vacation, the person he’s sharing it with, and hell, even for his own sake, he ought to _suck it up, buttercup._

He undresses quickly and shimmies into the swimsuit before he can change his mind. The fit is snug, though better than he expected – he’d envisioned he’d be a walking wardrobe malfunction – but they don’t exactly leave a lot to the imagination. He’s used to being safely encased in layers of denim and flannel that hide everything – his scars, the slight softness of his stomach. The idea of walking around in _public_ like this is just—

Dean’s not sure how long he’s been standing there when Cas’s voice shakes him loose from his reverie. “Dean?”

Dean takes a deep breath and pulls the curtain aside, but stays put. He’s not ready to venture out of the changing room yet, but he can at least talk to Cas.

Cas must catch whatever distress Dean is radiating, because he sounds worried when he asks, “Is everything all right?”

Dean huffs, ready to resume his tirade about how absurdly revealing Europeans seem to like their swimwear, but he knows Cas would see it for the bluster it really is. He clenches his jaw but soldiers on, because honesty is the best policy when it comes to Cas. “I feel kind of ridiculous,” he admits and _goddammit,_ he feels a blush creeping up, and that’s even _more_ humiliating.

Cas doesn’t say anything right away, simply lets his eyes wander. They linger on Dean’s chest, where his blush is rapidly spreading (especially under Cas’s scrutiny), and travel further down and back up in a slow, thorough once-over, before returning to Dean’s face. “You certainly don’t _look_ ridiculous,” he says in a deep rumble that effectively silences Dean’s further protests.

It is _so like Cas_ to shut him up by complimenting him, Dean thinks with a scowl that he doesn’t really mean. “You gonna try yours on or what?” he asks, not sure what else to say, and once they swap places and Dean’s getting an eyeful of Cas, he’s at even more of a loss for words.

Cas’s body was made for a swimsuit like this – the way the tight material accentuates his muscular thighs and clings to the curve of his ass should be fucking _illegal_. Dean’s starting to think he might’ve been too quick to judge European swimwear.

Cas considers his reflection and turns back to Dean. “I suppose they _are_ a bit revealing, aren’t they?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re.... um,” Dean says intelligently.

“If you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to buy them, we can do something e—”

“No! No, it’s,” Dean feels himself flush again when he realizes how vehemently he cut Cas off. “It’s fine, I’m good, I mean – when in Rome, right? Or, y’know, uh… Greece,” he finishes lamely, and Cas is the sterling picture of innocence, but Dean suspects he just played perfectly into Cas’s hand. Sure enough, there’s the barest trace of a smirk on Cas’s face when he closes the curtain.

Dean hovers by the counter as Cas pays – the saleswoman is chatting Cas up, probably complimenting him on his Greek, and Dean feels a minor pang of jealousy, but _that_ he knows is irrational, so he quashes it. Cas is as oblivious to anyone else’s flirtations as he is uninterested. Dean’s still uncertain about their purchases, but he figures if he looks _half_ as good in his suit as Cas – or half as good as Cas’s appreciative looks seemed to indicate he does – then he’s not about to waste anyone’s time whining about it not being his “style.”

They change back at their room – barely managing not to get _too_ distracted rubbing each other down with sunscreen – and by the time they hit the beach, Dean’s way too interested in how Cas looks to worry about his own insecurities. Between the aviators and the skimpy shorts, Cas looks like every fantasy Dean’s ever not admitted to having. But now he’s secure enough with himself that he _can_ admit it, and _god,_ he gets to take that fantasy back to his hotel room later. Hell, he’s not even sure he’s patient enough for that – Dean’s always _assumed_ sex on the beach is probably overrated, but he’s starting to consider testing that theory out for himself, as soon as possible.

That evening, they enjoy dinner at a nearby restaurant. Dean’s still not one hundred percent clear on everything he eats, but he does discover that he finds spinach a lot more palatable when it’s paired with a strong feta. Sam would be so proud.

Across the table, Cas is speaking to the waiter in Greek. Dean has no idea what they’re saying, so he lets his mind wander. Cas has said the sappiest and _filthiest_ stuff to him in all kinds of languages, so Cas speaking in a foreign tongue is kind of becoming a _thing_ for Dean. He snaps out of it when the waiter slides what appear to be dessert menus onto the table, and _hell yeah_ Dean can get on board with that. Dean picks one up and glances at it, but he can’t even begin to read it, so he sets it back down with a shrug and half-smile aimed in Cas’s direction. “Guess you’re picking,” he declares, perfectly at ease with that. Cas taking the reins on food decisions has been working out all right so far.

Cas peruses for a minute before setting his menu aside and leaning in closer to Dean, like he’s got something important to say. Intrigued, Dean leans in, too, and waits.

“Have you ever tried baklava?” Cas asks, voice dipping low, a suggestive lilt to his words and a glint in his eye that Dean isn’t sure he understands, but he _definitely_ likes.

“No,” he says slowly. He’s seen it on offer at some diners before, but it never really caught his eye, as long as pie was an option. “Is it any good?”

Cas fixes him with a very intent look, which isn’t unusual for Cas, but Dean still feels like he’s missing something here. “I think you’ll like it.”

And for Dean, that’s assurance enough. He’s definitely game.

They’re not the only patrons left in the restaurant, but it’s getting late, and Dean can sense their waiter’s restlessness when he comes to take their dessert order. Dean’s suddenly pretty antsy himself, thoroughly looking forward to getting out of here and _unwinding_ back at the hotel. Cas must be impatient too, because their dessert arrives in a to-go box.

It’s only a short walk back to where they’re staying, but with the mood Dean’s in, it feels interminable. Cas holds his hand the entire time. He’d gone in tentatively, giving Dean the chance to pull away, and Dean _had_ tensed up a little, only at first, feeling self-conscious and more exposed than he’d been on the plane. But it’s not as if anyone knows him here, or the locals seem particularly judgmental about that kind of thing. Besides, Dean _wants_ to, and he hasn’t been through what he’s been through – with Cas or with anything else – only to come out on the other side too afraid to hold hands with someone who he’ll, quite frankly, probably spend the rest of his life with. Maybe that whole lifespan thing is always a bit up in the air when it comes to Winchesters (and fallen angels) but he’s not exactly hoping to be rid of Cas anytime soon. Not when he finally stayed, and Dean finally let him. Not when they actually get to have this.

Dean looks over and Cas has a smile on his face like he can’t believe how lucky he is – Dean recognizes it for what it is because he finds himself wearing that look himself, most days. It used to make him skittish, uneasy, seeing something like that in Cas’s eyes. Dean’s spent a lot of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop when it comes to things he cares about, and _that_ level of affection always felt too good to be true – it still does, if he’s being honest, but he’s come around to the fact that Cas isn’t going anywhere. Especially not if Dean has anything to say about it.

When they arrive, Cas’s hand settles warm and heavy on the small of Dean’s back as he fumbles with the key to their room. Dean can’t get them inside fast enough. It feels like a fucking miracle when the door finally swings open and Cas ushers him inside.

Cas sets down the takeout container on the kitchenette table as Dean closes the door behind them. The moment he slips the lock into place and turns back to Cas, the shift in mood is tangible. The soft fondness in Cas’s eyes is still there – Dean’s not sure there’s a moment that it entirely disappears – but it’s beginning to be overshadowed by a look of promising intent. It’s enough to have Dean’s heart beating a little bit faster, heat blooming in his belly where it’s been simmering all day. Dean tries to meet Cas’s gaze with a cocky grin, but he falters as Cas closes the distance between them, not hesitating to pull Dean against him and kiss him. Dean can’t help but respond with enthusiasm.

Cas always kissed Dean as if he’d never had the chance before and he knew he’d never have it again. Dean would be lying if he said that didn’t excite him a little, make him feel important in ways he doesn’t normally allow himself to feel. He’s still thinking about earlier, at the beach – he could barely keep his eyes off Cas while he luxuriated in the sun, taunting Dean by looking tan and gorgeous and returning his lascivious glances. He’s been dying to get his hands on Cas all afternoon, and he’s not wasting the opportunity, sweeping his palms up Cas’s back, feeling the solid muscle. Cas’s fingertips graze Dean’s face as he cups Dean’s jaw and deepens the kiss, one thumb gently caressing his cheekbone. Dean’s finally reached a comfort level where he can admit that feeling Cas’s stubble rough against his sends a thrill through him, maybe even more than the way their tongues slide against each other, thinking _yes god yes_ as he gives himself over to Cas’s ministrations.

He stifles a moan in the back of his throat when Cas moves his other hand to rest on Dean’s ass and gives it a firm squeeze while he draws Dean’s lower lip between his teeth. When Cas pulls back and drags his lip into a sharp bite Dean can’t manage to suppress his whimper, both because _goddamn that always fuckin’ gets him going_ and because _what the hell why is Cas stopping?_ Dean frowns and tries to chase after him, but Cas isn’t having it.

“Dean, wait a minute,” Cas says, with some difficulty.

Dean realizes he’s probably pouting and tries to sassily raise an eyebrow instead, waiting for an explanation. Cas, at the very least, does appear reluctant to have put the brakes on. He has this strange furrow in his brow too – clearly there’s something on his mind that has him stalling – and Dean’s still trying to figure that out when Cas speaks again.

“I…” Cas trails off, looks away, then meets Dean’s expectant gaze again with what appears to be renewed resolve. “I bought you something.”

Dean doesn’t really know what he was expecting to hear – although that ugly, negative side of his brain could have provided some options – but it certainly wasn’t that. “You—” he pauses and scrunches up his eyes, “…what?” He makes no attempt to disguise the confusion on his face, likely exuding a little annoyance as well, feeling left in the dark about whatever Cas has been up to. They haven’t been out of each other’s sight since they left the bunker – when did Cas find the chance to _buy_ him something?

“It was before we left,” Cas says as if reading Dean’s mind, and sometimes Dean fucking _swears_ he’s got some leftover mojo in there. “While you were in Chicago,” Cas’s voice is softer on that last part – the separation was tough for both of them. Dean’s not sure what to say, but Cas fills the silence for him. “Let me show you,” he says, smiling faintly and running a hand down Dean’s arm to briefly entangle Dean’s fingers with his.

As Cas steps away to rummage around in their luggage, Dean’s momentary confusion gives way to curiosity and he’s suddenly _dying_ to know what on earth Cas has been waiting weeks to give to him.

Cas returns with a small, non-descript shopping bag, which doesn’t give Dean any hints. Cas appears hesitant but pleased with himself nonetheless as he hands it over. Dean doesn’t even try to get a peek at the contents first, just reaches in and wraps his fingers around something that feels surprisingly… — _oh_. As he withdraws his hand and looks down at his gift – a pair of _very_ delicate women’s panties – he hopes his blush isn’t _too_ noticeable. Suddenly, Cas’s uncertainty makes much more sense. But as Dean feels his face heat even more – a little embarrassed, sure, but most definitely _interested_ – he wants Cas to know that his fears about Dean’s reaction were unfounded.

It’s not like this is new territory for them. Once they’d started giving this whole _Cas and Dean_ thing a real try – on both an emotional and _physical_ level – Cas had been relentlessly determined to learn everything he could do to make Dean feel good. It had only been a matter of time before he discovered Dean’s penchant for flimsy little panties. But Dean’s only ever purchased this sort of thing for himself – once he was able to admit that was something he wanted, mostly thanks to Cas offering encouragement and an avid interest that surprised both of them – or else acquired them through other questionable means. Cas has never _bought_ anything like this for him before. Just the idea of it has Dean squirming.

He tries to stop himself from saying something stupid, but he still finds himself asking, “You bought these? ...For me?”

Cas crowds in close to him again – Dean used to gripe about “personal space” but now he rarely wants Cas much further away than this – and slides his palms along Dean’s hips, over the small of his back. “I was… out one day, and I happened to see these,” he says almost too casually.

Dean suspects it wasn’t as much of a funny coincidence as Cas is trying to make it out to be, no doubt attempting to not _completely_ mortify Dean by acknowledging that he deliberately sought them out because of Dean’s (mostly) secret kinks.

“I... wanted you to have them,” Cas continues.

And isn’t _that_ a thought. More than anything else Dean finds that he’s weirdly… _touched_ by the gesture. He’s not particularly used to gifts. The fact that Cas went out of his way to get something that he knew Dean would like, even if it’s something Dean sometimes struggles to own up to without shame, has Dean’s heart thudding strangely in his chest.

Cas must see something in Dean’s eyes, see how this is affecting him, because suddenly all traces of hesitation are gone. He smiles indulgently and kisses Dean’s cheek, mouth wandering toward his ear. He pitches his voice even lower, which is as seemingly impossible as it is _terribly unfair_ , when he adds, “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you wearing them.”

Dean’s stomach swoops pleasantly at those words, and he feels the flush return to his face full force. Cas makes this kind of thing easier by being supportive and open-minded – and lacking any sense of what humans normally find _indecent_ – but even more helpful is the fact that Cas is surprisingly into this whole thing himself. When Dean sees his own desires reflected in Cas’s eyes, it’s nearly impossible to be self-conscious about them.

Dean realizes he hasn’t said much, but he’s not sure he can find the words. He wants to say thank you _(god, thank you thank you)_ but he’s a little fearful of how much weight will actually be behind that simple response. He wants to thank Cas for so much more than spending a few bucks at a lingerie store with a fraudulent credit card – he wouldn’t know where to _begin_.

Luckily, Cas understands that Dean gets quiet in times like this, never pressures him to _talk about his feelings_ , is willing to meet him more than halfway. Cas brings his hand to Dean’s face again, stroking his cheek as he watches Dean with a serene, patient smile. “Do you like them?” he asks.

Dean glances at his hand and notices he has the panties clenched in his fist. He relaxes his grip, not wanting to ruin them, and takes a better look. They have lace trim and little _bows_ on them—Dean tries and fails to summon up a protest to that—and of _course_ they’re _pink_. Dean’s always favored the color for this kind of thing, the night Rhonda Hurley kind of turned his world upside down never too far from his mind, so of course Cas has picked up on it. But his favorite part is how damn _soft_ they are. He finds himself breathing a bit faster, running his fingers over the delicate fabric, imagining how it’ll feel pressed up against him so intimately. They’re soft and _pretty_ and just for him and the persona he’s been building for an entire lifetime should reject _everything about this scenario_ , but Cas’s strong hands and heated gaze leave room for nothing but a feeling of safety and incipient arousal.

 _What’s not to like?_ he thinks, but he still can’t help stamping that reaction down, needing to temper it to something less embarrassingly keen. He nods faintly, forces himself to find Cas’s eyes and use actual words. “Yeah,” he says, voice scratchy. “Fuckin’… _yeah_ – _Jesus,_ Cas,” he adds on a shaky exhale, attempting a laugh but not quite getting there. He doesn’t think he can manage to voice his thoughts much more articulately than that, but he wants Cas to know he’s sincere. When Cas smiles and reels Dean in for a heated kiss, Dean easily sways forward to meet him, tries to express his gratitude in each eager press of his lips.

When Cas pulls back and tries to say something again, Dean refuses to let him, guiding Cas’s face back towards his, sliding their mouths together. Cas gives into his insistence for a moment before making another attempt, stopping Dean from chasing after him with unyielding fingers on his jaw, letting the thumb of one hand trace Dean’s lower lip. The other hand slips underneath Dean’s shirt, stroking the muscles in Dean’s back as they gradually loosen under the attention. Dean closes his eyes and relaxes into it for a moment before looking at Cas, waiting for him to continue.

Cas is watching Dean with an intensity that used to be overwhelming, and still is, but Dean is learning to take pleasure in being the subject of such focus and passion. Cas’s voice is calm, but serious, when he asks, “Do you want to put them on?”

They both know what Cas is really asking. Occasionally, Dean gets the urge to slip on something silky for no other reason than because it feels nice – a sinful little secret that no one but him has to know about. But when he lets Cas see him that way, it’s less a frivolous indulgence and more of a deliberate display of vulnerability, expressing an urge to entrust that vulnerability to Cas. It allows him to ease his many burdens and embrace that it’s okay to let his guard down – _more_ than okay, because Cas will treasure his trust, offer acceptance, patience and a firm guiding hand in return. Dean’s been learning how a lack of control can be so very freeing.

When Cas asks _Do you want to put them on_ he means _do you want this tonight?_ Is Dean willing to place himself completely in Cas’s hands, let him take over and give Dean everything he needs? And yes, Dean absolutely wants that (he’s starting to want that from Cas quite a lot, more than he manages to ask for, though he’s working on it) but he _especially_ wants that right now, with Cas’s eyes trained on him attentively, hands steady and reassuring, the smooth fabric of the panties tantalizing beneath his own fingers. He swallows and nods decisively, and the underlying current of thankfulness in Cas’s kisses is palpable. He knows it means a lot to Cas to be trusted with this too.

When they part, Dean can immediately see the change in Cas’s eyes – the newfound resolve, the air of authority. “Go put them on in the bathroom,” he tells Dean with a voice that’s soft but leaves no room for doubt that that’s an _order_. He punctuates his statement with another kiss that’s much the same – gentle but commanding.

Dean nods again and hastens to obey, hoping he’s walking to the bathroom at a pace that isn’t comically hurried.

Behind the closed bathroom door, he takes a moment to consider the undergarments in his hands. They still look infinitely appealing, even in the harsh fluorescent light. Of course, there’s a part of him that keeps fighting to hide these inclinations, that’s terrified of someone knowing just how much he likes them, and not because he’s picturing them on a shapely female body. But this is Cas, and even though he didn’t entirely understand the whole concept at first (neither did Dean, really) he never once judged Dean for it.  He’d only been intent on making it happen, as he always was when it came to giving Dean what he wanted. The whole… _taking charge_ thing sort of ended up going hand in hand, and _that_ Cas had taken to surprisingly quickly. Or maybe, Dean realizes in hindsight, it was exactly what he should have expected – Cas, after all, had once led armies, had dozens following his lead, falling all over themselves for the chance to call him _commander_.

Not wanting to keep Cas waiting, Dean hastily sheds his clothes, but he takes his time as he slides the panties on. He moves slowly, focusing on how they feel underneath his fingertips, smoothing over his thighs. They’re a snug fit, definitely, but not completely obscene. _Not yet anyway_ he thinks, unable to ignore how he’s already stirring against the fabric, anticipation settling deep in his belly. The sight of it in the mirror – the sight of _himself_ in nothing but lacy pink panties with _bows_ – brings a deep flush to his face and only serves to arouse him further, suddenly more anxious than ever to get back to Cas.

At the sound of the bathroom door opening, Cas’s attention immediately snaps from whatever he’s doing to Dean hesitating in the threshold. Dean’s hardly any more uncovered than he was at the beach today, but when he looks at Cas, who’s fully dressed, the difference between their attire seems immeasurable. He imagines he’d feel less exposed if he weren’t wearing anything at all.

But Cas only looks at him with undisguised appreciation, unashamedly letting his eyes rove over every inch of Dean’s bare skin, lingering where Dean is scarcely concealed by a scrap of cotton and lace. Cas has made it clear that he _likes_ the way Dean looks when he wears something like this – even if he isn’t any better at explaining _why_ than Dean is about his fondness for wearing them. Dean knows, more than anything, that it’s because _Dean_ likes it, and Cas never seems happier than when he’s helping Dean enjoy himself. It hasn’t stopped feeling a bit overwhelming to do this, to reveal something so intimate and personal about himself that he’s kept so closely guarded for so long. But he’s been rewarded with nothing but encouragement and a predilection that rivals his own – which is overwhelming, too, in its own, much better way – and that’s been so unbelievably _amazing_ that he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He doesn’t really feel like he deserves it.

 Cas catches his focus with a steady gaze, looking at Dean like he wants to take him apart, _slowly_ , and _god,_ Dean really hopes he’s going to.  A beat passes before Cas says, “Come here.” He doesn’t raise his voice or speak harshly, but his tone leaves no room for argument. Dean is before him in an instant.

Cas wastes no time getting his hands on Dean, sliding them from Dean’s hips towards the base of his spine, pinkies skimming underneath the lace at Dean’s hips. He pulls Dean close and kisses him with purpose, and with the state Dean’s in that’s enough to have him groaning into Cas’s mouth, wrinkling the fabric of Cas’s shirt where he’s got it gripped between his fingers. He thinks of the surety he’d heard in Cas’s voice, the same confidence he feels now in Cas’s hands and each press of his lips, and begins to gradually unwind, growing more pliant by the second. He can tell tonight’s going to be good. Cas has got this – Cas has got _him_.

Cas’s eyes are on him again, only fleetingly drifting over his body before resting on his face, gazing intently, probably trying to memorize each freckle or something else that makes Dean’s stomach flip with embarrassment and reluctant pleasure.

Cas cups Dean’s jaw in his palm, traces a cheekbone with his thumb. “You look… _perfect_ ,” Cas says with such sincerity that the feeling in Dean’s belly magnifies tenfold and he’s struggling under the weight of his conflicting emotions.

His face is flaming, and he presses his lips together, fights the urge to shake his head in disagreement because that’s an awfully strong word – _no one_ is perfect, but if anyone were, it certainly wouldn’t be _him_. Praise like that has never been easy for Dean to accept. He still has to stop himself from countering every _you’re so good_ with an emphatic _I’m not, I’m not_. But Cas has never allowed that as an answer, has always responded to Dean’s self-doubt by holding him still and kissing every inch of him, murmuring endearments until Dean has to submit to the fact that he is cherished.

But then Cas looks so damn _proud_ of him for taking the compliment without dispute, the feeling of absolute fulfillment Dean gets completely eclipses any residual discomfort. Just like that he’s warm all over, tingling pleasantly under Cas’s satisfied regard, and now that he’s working past his reservations, he can admit that that look makes it all worth it. If Cas can look at him like this, believe in him so strongly, then maybe some of what Cas says is actually true.

Cas takes Dean’s hand and leads him to the table in the sitting area, where one of the bed pillows is lying in front of a pulled-out chair. Cas sits down, hardly gets the chance to utter, “Here, on your knees,” before Dean is complying, readily sinking into place at Cas’s feet.

Dean knows that if Cas bothered putting down a damn _pillow_ he’ll probably be in this position for a while, and that’s a prospect he actually finds more _thrilling_ than anything else. There was no doubt a time when he would have balked at the idea of _kneeling_ in front of another man like this, but that side of himself retreats a little further into oblivion each time they do this.

Cas smiles faintly at Dean’s obedience, lifts a hand to cup Dean’s cheek. “ _Good_ , Dean, that’s it,” he says, the sentiment and the low, purring timbre of his voice sending Dean’s heartbeat racing.

The praise settles more easily in Dean’s mind now – the discomfort’s fading faster by the second – and he closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him, concentrates on the repressed part of him that feels _amazing_ when he hears Cas say something like that. Cas strokes his hair affectionately and he sighs, leaning into the soothing touch. The extravagant compliments may sometimes give him pause, but he can’t deny that he fucking _loves_ this, to lose himself in the sensation of Cas’s hands on him, _feel_ Cas’s absolute adoration in a way that’s easier to process.

When Dean opens his eyes, Cas cradles his face in both hands, leaning forward to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Dean’s not shy about getting really into it, eagerly seeking Cas’s tongue with his own, freely allowing soft little moans in the back of his throat at every gentle scrape of Cas’s teeth on his lower lip.  If he’s being honest, he’d be content with doing just this for a _long_ fucking time, and he knows Cas would be more than on board with that. No one’s ever really kissed him quite the way Cas does – throwing himself into it without reservation, holding back absolutely none of his passion, yet still content to take his time, as if there isn’t a thing in the world he’d rather be doing. It’s nothing short of fantastic, and Dean’s happy to keep at it for a while, pick up where they left off before Cas stopped to give him his gift.

As if on cue, Cas retreats again, to Dean’s renewed dismay – though it’s crossing over into the _good_ kind of frustration, the kind that only makes the eventual gratification that much sweeter, and he’s almost torn between wanting to get on with it and wanting to draw the tease out for as long as possible. But then Cas is grasping Dean’s jaw, uncompromising, and he’s reminded, with a sudden rush of exhilaration, that he won’t be the one making that decision. Cas is controlling the pace here.

He lets his hands wander from where they’ve been resting on Cas’s knees, slowly skimming up Cas’s thighs. The sensation of all that muscle beneath his fingers instantly puts his mind back on the beach and _goddamn,_ he’s going to be thinking about Cas in those swim trunks for _months_. He’s not sure yet if Cas is thinking what he’s thinking, but being in this position, kneeling between Cas’s legs, is certainly giving Dean ideas. Dean doesn’t realize he’s been licking his lips, blatantly telegraphing his desires, until he catches Cas eyeing his mouth with interest. But Cas stops Dean’s wandering fingers with his own, before they go any higher.

Cas must have something else in mind, and Dean’s not sure what it is yet, but so far Cas has him willing to play along. He trusts Cas to make it good.

The seconds tick by, and Dean’s doing his very best to practice being patient, fighting the urge to fidget under Cas’s scrutiny and his own burning sense of want. Cas leisurely strokes Dean’s chin with his thumb, rasping across Dean’s stubble, straying upwards to slide across Dean’s lower lip where it’s damp with saliva.

It feels like eons pass before Cas speaks again, and Dean’s ready to hang on every word. “You wanted to try the baklava, didn’t you?” Cas asks, sounding deceptively casual, but suddenly everything clicks into place for Dean, Cas’s intentions overwhelmingly clear.

Dean’s focus darts to to the takeout container on the table next to them, nearly forgotten in light of Cas giving him his gift, then swiftly returns to Cas. Oh. _Oh._

This isn’t entirely new for them either. Of course, this wasn’t something he knew he liked or even would have thought to do before Cas. They got to discover this together, falling into it gradually at first, almost accidentally (the two of them sharing some apple pie, Cas dragging his finger through the traces of filling left on his plate, offering it to Dean) but they’d both liked it so much, things escalated rapidly from there.

Dean’s licking his lips again, but this time with a sense of complete awareness. He’s somewhat disappointed that he won’t get to suck Cas off (not _yet_ anyway  – maybe Cas is just enjoying denying Dean what he wants, making him wait for it, knowing that drives Dean absolutely crazy in the best way possible). He’ll probably think about it the entire time he’s got Cas’s fingers in his mouth, but even if that’s all he gets, he’s _definitely_ going to enjoy himself.

Once again Dean recognizes the underlying meaning in Cas’s question and wants to make his feelings perfectly clear. “Yeah,” he says, “ _Yeah_ , I want to.”

Cas looks pleased, and Dean’s desire ratchets up a few notches. One of Cas’s hands scrubs through Dean’s hair again, settles on the nape of his neck, while the other pops open the lid of the to-go box.

A momentary worry crosses Dean’s mind – what if he doesn’t _like_ baklava? – but then the scent of the dessert wafts his way. He catches a hint of something sweet and spicy, which certainly isn’t anything to complain about, and he knows enough about the general concept of baklava to be confident that it won’t be outright disgusting. Besides, in Dean’s opinion (his very personal, very secret opinion), everything tastes infinitely better when he’s sampling it from Cas’s fingers.

Cas breaks off a generous piece and holds it up to Dean’s mouth. Dean pauses, catches Cas’s eyes as they’re carefully watching him, before leaning forward and taking a tentative bite. He draws back and chews thoughtfully, considering the flavors and textures – honey, nuts, flaky pastry. It’s not altogether that different than something like pecan pie, he supposes. In fact, he would even say – very begrudgingly – that it might be a _little_ bit better.

Once he’s swallowed the first morsel he finds Cas’s gaze again. Cas gives the back of Dean’s neck a comforting squeeze. “Good?” he asks, with just the barest tilt of his head, a familiar habit that Cas hasn’t completely shaken. Dean’s content to think that he never will.

Dean shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, savors the lingering flavor on his tongue, the pressure of Cas’s fingers on his skin keeping him grounded, the tease of soft cotton against him where he’s steadily growing harder. He takes a moment to return Cas’s fervent stare, feeling the vague traces of a dazed smile creeping onto his face. “Yeah, it’s—” he has to stop and start again, words already slurring as he’s slipping into a blissfully fuzzy headspace. “ _Good_ , s’good,” he confirms, because that’s definitely how he’s feeling right now, and yeah, the baklava’s pretty tasty too. He tries to shuffle a little closer, chin lifting, lips already parting in expectation of the next bite.

Cas strokes his cheek with an indulgent smile, but doesn’t keep him waiting. He breaks off another small piece to feed to Dean, letting him carefully take it from between his fingers, then another, and another. Cas is methodically slow, the time stretching out between each pass making Dean’s head swim with anticipation.

Dean’s feeling pleasantly sluggish, thoughts floating away, but when he absentmindedly fidgets, his current state of dress is brought into sharp focus. He’s starting to strain against the delicate fabric of his panties – they’re not exactly designed for someone with male anatomy, let alone one rapidly working his way towards painfully aroused – and _god_ that thought only stokes the fire even higher, the twitch of his hips not remotely accidental this time, getting just the faintest amount of friction.

Cas must notice, but he stoically presents Dean with another bit of baklava, and this time Dean’s too turned on to be delicate, allows his teeth to scrape the pad of Cas’s thumb. Something flashes in Cas’s eyes, the vestiges of a smirk on his face. Dean has no doubt, now, that Cas has picked up on the fact that this is getting to him, and he takes his sweet time offering Dean the next mouthful, leaving Dean vibrating with impatience. Dean’s deliberately sloppy, lips wrapping around Cas’s fingers. The sensation of Cas’s flesh grazing his tongue has Dean’s mouth watering in a way the baklava hasn’t quite managed to achieve.

On the next few bites he’s completely shameless, diving back in after the pastry’s gone, licking the crumbs and sticky syrup from Cas’s fingertips. After a couple more, he doesn’t even let Cas go back for another piece right away, just takes Cas’s fingers deeper into his mouth, delighting in the way Cas presses down against his tongue. He makes sure to keep eye contact as he hollows his cheeks, knowing full well that Cas likes this because Dean does, but he’s _also_ not immune to the sight of Dean’s lips, slick and eager, suggestively wrapped around his fingers. He’s said as much to Dean in the past – now that Cas has picked up on that kind of vocabulary, he’s gratuitously filthy with it when he wants to be.

Cas certainly does seem enthralled with the picture Dean makes in front of him, his grip tight on the nape of Dean’s neck, eyes wandering languidly from Dean’s greedy mouth downward, to where Dean’s obscenely tenting the front of his panties. Cas is hard, too – Dean can _definitely_ see that from this angle – and Dean’s tempted into letting his hands stray forward again, wanting so badly to undo Cas’s belt, get his mouth on him properly. He can’t imagine that Cas would complain. His fingertips firmly knead the solid muscle of Cas’s thighs, still easy to detect through the rough material of Cas’s pants. He’d like it if Cas were naked too, if his skin were accessible to Dean’s exploratory touch, but the idea of Cas being fully dressed – an intoxicating contrast to Dean, beyond exposed in flimsy women’s underwear – is a worthwhile trade-off.

Just as Dean’s hands creep a bit further, inching towards where Cas’s erection is pressed distractingly against his fly, Cas stops him again, not nearly as gently as last time. When he reaches towards Dean’s face, he doesn’t even have another piece of the baklava, just slides two fingers into Dean’s mouth, draws back and then presses inside again, roughly dragging against Dean’s tongue. Dean reads the message loud and clear – Cas decides what he gets, and when, so right now Dean will have to be satisfied with only Cas’s fingers. If that’s what Cas has in mind, Dean’s fine with going along with it. In his experience, following Cas’s lead always yielded good results, and he can’t imagine tonight being an exception.

Cas teases him further by popping the next morsel into his _own_ mouth, taking his time as he chews, sucking the traces of honey from the pad of his thumb. Dean watches attentively and _god,_ Dean wants Cas’s mouth on him, wants it _all over him_ – Cas had expressed his own interest in the very same thing, during a furtive phone call a few weeks back while Dean was away. The low growl of his voice, making promise after dirty promise, had nearly tempted Dean into abandoning the mission and hopping into the Impala at the first possible opportunity.

Cas shows some mercy and finds Dean’s lips with his own, tasting of cinnamon as he kisses Dean deeply. It’s enough to set Dean on edge and before he knows it he’s restless, urgently rocking his hips, feeling the panties tight and smooth against him, rutting into the pressure that the damp fabric just barely provides, but not to the point of any relief. It only magnifies his desperation – he’s half out of his mind with want, and Cas has barely touched him – and he must be whimpering by now too, involuntary little noises in the back of his throat, because Cas breaks the kiss and shushes him, runs soothing fingers through his hair. Dean manages to slow his movements before they become frantic, trying to settle again, but the arousal surging through him still has his mind in a frenzy.         

Cas is still petting his hair, gentle strokes that have Dean relaxing further, letting his eyes slip closed for just a moment before they seek out Cas’s gaze again. It’s still intense to have all of Cas’s attention focused on him like that, to see how painfully earnest he is in his adoration for Dean, but right now, Dean’s not of the mindset to balk at it.

“Do you want more?” Cas asks, the deep pitch of his steady voice grounding Dean. Dean’s not sure what Cas is specifically offering _more_ of, but he does know that the answer is undoubtedly _yes_. He’s content to let Cas decide. Cas has always been learning the freedom in having choice, and lately, Dean’s been figuring out the feeling of liberation that comes from giving it up. There’s a particular kind of thrill in not having to make decisions.

He nods dazedly, agrees, “Yeah, more,” just barely stops himself from tacking on a _please_.

Cas takes Dean firmly by the arm and helps him stand. “Here, Dean, like this,” he murmurs, strong hands guiding Dean into place until he’s seated in Cas’s lap. He hums, with apparent contentment, skimming his fingers along Dean’s ribs and pulling him into another kiss.

Dean doesn’t have the chance to get awkward as he sometimes does, feeling slightly undignified in a position like this. He’s too swept up in the warmth of Cas’s body, reveling in being so close to him, wrapped in his embrace. Kneeling for Cas no doubt holds a certain appeal, but it’s so much easier for Cas to touch him this way, to stroke the vulnerable stretch of skin under Dean’s jaw as he kisses him lazily, and Dean soaks up the attention. They’ve more or less given up on the pretense of the baklava, but Cas feeds him a few more pieces, kissing him thoroughly between each bite. When it’s gone, Cas picks up the tiny leftover bits of pastry and sticky sugar at the bottom of the container and lets Dean suck the crumbs from his fingers.

Dean is shamefully hard. He should probably find it humiliating to get off on this – putting on women’s underwear for Cas, willingly dropping to his knees, practically crawling into his lap – but the taboo of it is only turning him on more. Cas doesn’t seem to be much better off, a strained sigh escaping when Dean shifts against him, settling more firmly where Cas is gratifyingly solid beneath him. All at once Cas is kissing Dean with an urgency that’s at odds with the leisurely wandering of his hands, fingertips grazing the bare skin of Dean’s stomach, smoothing down Dean’s thighs and back up again, but never straying to where he’s aching for Cas’s touch.

Cas caresses Dean’s chest, drags the calloused pad of his thumb across a nipple, and Dean’s twitching in his panties, suppressing a whimper. Cas continues to worry at the sensitive flesh, and an ungentle pinch, just the right side of too much, has Dean breaking the kiss with a pitiful whine. Dean’s not sure if it’s that sound or the feeling of Dean writhing in his lap that does it, but Cas adopts a sudden air of decisiveness, seeming intent on moving things along. Dean’s very much on board with that, but he needs a moment to collect himself, letting his eyes slip shut. He opens them reflexively when Cas cups his jaw in a firm grip, staring him down with laser focus. Dean recognizes something wild in Cas’s eyes, and he wonders if Cas is going to change tack. Sometimes Cas is really rough with him, manhandles him where he pleases, holds him down with steely fingers, leaves him covered in bitemarks and bruises and that’s _hot as fuckin’ anything_ , but if he stuck with the gentle approach tonight, Dean definitely wouldn’t be disappointed.

But then Cas’s demeanor shifts into something fonder, and he plants a soft but undeniably demanding kiss on Dean’s mouth, pulling back and boring his gaze into Dean’s again, making sure he’s got Dean’s full attention. Dean couldn’t possibly focus on anything else.

“Get on the bed,” Cas says quietly, thumb tracing Dean’s lower lip, rasping along the fine stubble on his chin.

Dean thrills at the authority in Cas’s tone, how his voice has gone husky with desire, dipping to an even deeper pitch that sends Dean’s heart racing. He’s quick to comply with Cas’s order, rising unsteadily to his feet and wandering to the bed on wobbly legs, practically light-headed with excitement. He arranges himself on his back, with his head on a pillow, hoping his choice is to Cas’s liking. He doesn’t have the chance to rethink it or ask for more direction before Cas is stalking towards him with a predatory gleam in his eye that Dean finds _very_ promising.

Cas climbs onto the mattress with what feels like exaggerated slowness, settling over Dean incrementally and fitting himself between his splayed thighs until Dean’s sighing happily at the weight of Cas pressing him down. Dean lets one hand drop to Cas’s waist to pull him closer, the other gripping his shoulder and bunching the fabric of his shirt and _god_ , Dean feels obscene, barely covered by a scrap of lace, and Cas hasn’t removed one _stitch_ of clothing yet.

For a moment, Cas just _looks_ at him, runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, traces them over his flushed cheeks. What Dean sees in Cas’s eyes is _too much_ , more than he can handle, so he surges up for a kiss, hoping to redirect Cas’s focus. Cas obliges easily, deepening the kiss with confident sweeps of his tongue and rolling his hips against Dean in slow, undulating thrusts. It’s the first real contact Dean’s had on his aching cock all evening, and the firm, steady friction has him embarrassingly close to losing it. Cas swallows Dean’s moans with the insistent pressure of his lips, hums his own pleasure into Dean’s mouth.

Cas trails his lips across Dean’s cheek, along his jaw line, meandering down his neck. Dean sighs and tilts his head back accommodatingly, baring his throat to Cas’s ministrations. When Cas finds a particularly sensitive spot, plants kisses there with a teasing scratch of stubble and an occasional hint of tongue, Dean can’t contain a groan. It sounds terribly loud in the still atmosphere of their hotel room, but he reminds himself that he doesn’t have to be careful about paper-thin walls at a cheap motel or his own damn _brother_ a few doors down at the bunker. It’s a freeing thought, and he breathes out a desperate _Cas_ just because he can, whimpering uninhibitedly when Cas moves lower and swipes his tongue over his nipple. He draws it between his teeth, slides his hand along Dean’s chest and rolls the other one between his fingers. Dean arches up beneath him, pushes more firmly against the solid heat of Cas’s body.

He’s frustrated by the loss when Cas pulls back after a few moments and gazes down at him again. Dean’s more prepared for it this time, tries not to shy away from what he sees in Cas’s eyes, or what Cas might see in _his_ as he meets Cas’s stare. Cas cups his cheek with one hand, the other moving up and down Dean’s torso with soothing, unhurried strokes.

“You’ve been so patient for me,” Cas says with a soft smile.

Dean struggles to even think of how long it’s been since they started. Time had slowed, wonderfully hazy, once Cas told him to _put on pretty pink panties_ and get on his knees. There are times when they do this that he’s left strung-out and needy, begging pathetically for whatever Cas will give him, but right now he’s luxuriating in Cas’s affections, being spoiled by his gentle words and touches. He’s beyond worked up, inching closer to the edge with each passing second, but he’s content to wait – Cas will keep him anchored. He wants to be good, wants to let Cas get him there when he decides they’re both ready.

Cas drops wet kisses on Dean’s ribs and all along his stomach, moving further down the bed until he’s hovering over Dean’s cock, his breath hot where Dean’s leaking a damp spot through the fabric of his panties. He only briefly lingers, continues his trail of kisses where Dean’s straining against the cotton, and Dean’s hips twitch restlessly at the tease of Cas’s plush mouth. Cas keeps going, runs his hands up Dean’s legs, spreads them wider and sucks a mark onto the inside of his thigh. Dean’s not holding back the undignified noises at this point, panting and whining Cas’s name.

Cas toys with the waistband of the panties and looks up at him, rubs one scruffy cheek against his thigh, ticklish on the sensitive skin. “Should I take them off?” he asks, lets the question hang for a moment. “Or leave them on?”

Dean wonders if the obvious choice is to take them off, but he’s not ready yet. He’s enjoying this. “Leave—” he stops and clears his throat, voice gone hoarse, “Leave them on.”

Cas nods once and smiles, slithers back up to kiss Dean thoroughly on the mouth as one hand cups Dean firmly through the delicate material. His touch feels like a brand, and it’s so damn _good_ that Dean can’t help but buck up into it as Cas strokes him gently.

“I like these,” Cas breathes, pressing his lips to Dean’s burning cheeks. “They’re so soft. Do they feel good, Dean?”

“Yeah, good,” he says dreamily, words slurring with arousal as he shamelessly thrusts against the heat of Cas’s palm.

Cas seems satisfied with Dean’s answer – he’d learned early on that Dean wasn’t generally forthcoming with his thoughts and feelings, would get reticent even when it came to something like this. Dean was grateful Cas had figured out how to make it easier for both of them, prompt him with questions, watch for a particular hitch in his breath or flash in his eyes, interpret beyond words and hear what Dean can’t always bring himself to actually say.

Dean whimpers in complaint when Cas moves his hand away, but then Cas is urging him onto his front, strong hands guiding him into position, bestowing a tender kiss on the back of his neck once he’s settled.  Dean lets out a pleased sigh at the attention, clutches the pillow beneath his chest, tilts his hips up eagerly as Cas palms his ass. Cas methodically works his way down the bed, presses searing kisses to Dean’s shoulders, the small of his back, the base of his spine.

Cas catches the waistband of Dean’s panties and slowly, teasingly inches it down. True to Dean’s request he doesn’t take them off entirely, leaves the elastic locked around Dean’s thighs, the silky fabric pulling even more tightly against his erection. Dean’s already whining in anticipation as Cas continues his path and drops a feather-light kiss on each bare cheek, grips the flesh firmly and spreads Dean open.

Dean hadn’t even begun to know how to ask for this when they’d first started sleeping together – Cas’s insatiable curiosity and desire to pleasure Dean in every way possible had led him to try it on his own. Once he’d seen how enthusiastically Dean responded – despite a few token protests at Cas’s exploration, at first – Cas had realized he’d made a worthwhile discovery.

Dean usually balks at how much he enjoys this, acute embarrassment warring with overwhelming arousal, but tonight, after everything they’ve already done, he feels nothing but pure exhilaration at the first touch of Cas’s tongue. He lets out a guttural moan, shoving his flushed face into the cool surface of the pillow, spreading his legs wider.

Cas doesn’t tease or hesitate, just laves the sensitive flesh until Dean’s squirming at the scrape of Cas’s stubble and the intimate slickness of his saliva. He muffles his whimpers against the soft down beneath him when Cas increases his efforts, thumbs opening Dean further, insistently pressing his tongue inside.

Dean chokes on a bitten-off curse, groans _Cas_ in a way that sounds pathetically needy, but he can’t focus enough to be shy about it when the tip of one finger joins Cas’s tongue. It only skims the surface of the tender skin, but the promise of _more_ sends Dean’s head spinning, has him whispering Cas’s name again.

Too soon, Cas withdraws with an impatient huff, pulling the panties back into place. “I’ll be right back,” he says soothingly, petting Dean’s sides in gentle, massaging strokes. “Stay right there,” he adds with a placating kiss on the nape of Dean’s neck before climbing off the bed.

Dean does as he’s told and stays put, but he shifts around to watch in disbelief, wondering what would possess Cas to press pause just as he was close to giving Dean what he really wanted. Then he sees Cas root around in their suitcase and toss a bottle onto the mattress and okay, yeah, that’s pretty important.

Then Cas is _finally_ taking his clothes off – with a typical lack of urgency – and Dean looks his fill, drinks in the gorgeous picture Cas makes without worrying about judgmental stares from beach-goers. He gives into the urge to grind himself against the comforter – Cas hadn’t told him he _couldn’t_ , though the thought of Cas sternly chastising him isn’t exactly a deterrent either way – and it’s so fucking _good_ his eyes squeeze shut as he suppresses a moan. He indulges in it for a moment, needing Cas to _hurry the fuck up_ because he’s not sure he can wait much longer.

“Dean,” Cas says sharply and Dean’s eyes snap open, abruptly stilling his movements.

It seems Cas didn’t intend to scold Dean, only get his attention, and a few beats pass in silence. Cas is fully undressed now (Dean’s gaze briefly wavers, drawn to where Cas is enticingly hard) and Dean _still_ feels more naked under his scrutiny. Cas tilts his head in consideration. “Move down further,” he says eventually, “Face the mirror.”

Dean’s confused until he remembers the closet next to foot of the bed, the one with full-length mirrors covering the sliding doors. He glances at it, although he can’t see his reflection from this angle, and looks back at Cas, hesitating. Cas raises an eyebrow, and Dean knows it’s as much _Do I need to repeat myself?_ as it is _Is this okay? Should we stop?_

It’s hardly the most adventurous thing Cas has asked him to do, by most people’s standards, but it’s not something they’ve tried before. Dean’s never even really considered the idea. He’s not sure how he feels about it yet, but he trusts Cas to look out for him, even when he’s pushing him out of his comfort zone. It’s not like he’s asking Dean for much.

He shifts down and turns until he’s facing the closet, avoiding his reflection in favor of watching Cas climb onto the bed behind him. Dean can see a subdued, pleased smile on Cas’s face as he settles over Dean and presses him flat to the mattress, kissing his cheek, warmly muttering, “ _Good,_ that’s good,” into his ear. Dean stomach swoops pleasantly at the praise and he relaxes further into the soft bedding, eyelids feeling heavy.

“Dean,” Cas says in a tone that instantly has Dean’s attention, eyes widening, seeking Cas’s gaze in the mirror. “I want you to watch,” he says after a moment, placing a gentle kiss on Dean’s temple, and, well, Dean had sort of figured that was the idea. Cas runs one hand along Dean’s shoulder, into his hair, and tugs gently, eliciting a startled gasp from Dean, desire ratcheting impossibly higher. Cas is never reserved about exploiting that particular weak spot.

Despite Cas’s directions, Dean can’t help but avert his eyes from the sight reflected in the mirror – the sight of _himself_ , flushed and open-mouthed, pinned by Cas’s weight, wavering between thrusting into the mattress and grinding back against the promising hardness of Cas’s cock.

“ _Watch_ ,” Cas repeats, with another tug to Dean’s hair, this time to redirect his focus, and Dean’s eyes immediately snap open, find Cas’s again. “I want you to see how incredible you look like this.”

Dean finds himself, as always, hypnotized by the sheer power of Cas’s stare, struggling to accept the affection he finds in his eyes, in his reverent touch, in his heated words. Dean briefly glances at his own blushing face, squashing down the lingering feelings of embarrassment at what he sees, looks at Cas again and faintly nods his assent.

Cas looks absurdly _proud_ of him for making the effort and that sends Dean’s blood simmering, and he watches his blush deepen, traveling down his neck.

Cas pulls back a bit, taking Dean by the hips and wordlessly maneuvering him as he pleases, up onto his knees, still grasping the pillow beneath his chest. Dean can hardly keep still, heart thudding when he hears the familiar click of a plastic bottle opening. Excitement increasing by the second, he watches Cas in the mirror – studiously avoiding his own image while he thinks he can get away with it – as he drizzles the slick liquid onto his fingers. Cas catches him, narrows his eyes just slightly, and Dean redirects his wandering gaze, getting the message.

Cas rewards his obedience with a tender kiss to the back of his neck, and although Cas is silent Dean feels the pride in that simple gesture. A surge of heat blossoms in Dean’s belly and he’s all the more eager to earn Cas’s praise, to hear him growling in his ear, telling him how _good_ he is.

Cas takes hold of the lace trim hugging Dean’s ass and carefully stretches it to one side, baring Dean to his attentions again. The pad of one slick finger firmly strokes where he’s still wet from Cas’s tongue, and the promise of finally having something _inside_ him has Dean stifling a whimper, fighting to keep his eyes trained on the mirror.

Cas slides his finger in, pushes it deeper steadily but without hesitation, and Dean’s panting and red-faced at the stretch, maddeningly good but not even close to what he really wants. Cas wastes no time in seeking out Dean’s prostate, crooking his finger and stroking with gentle, relentless pressure.

Dean moans loudly, and he’s trying, he’s _trying_ but it’s so _much_ and he buries his face in the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut.

Cas doesn’t reprimand him, but he ceases his movements, which, at the moment, feels infinitely worse. Dean’s eyes fly open, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but he falters when Cas calmly reaches forward with his free hand and extricates the pillow from Dean’s grasp, tossing it aside. Then he slides his hand along Dean’s throat and under his jaw, giving a solid squeeze when Dean’s eyes return to the mirror.

Cas continues, touching him inside in a way that has his toes curling, hands frantically clutching the bedspread. Cas adds another finger and Dean hisses, loving the slight burn as Cas opens him up further. He’s leaking profusely into his panties now, missing the feeling of the solid mattress beneath him, and he thrusts back against Cas’s fingers, wanting more.

By the time Cas has three fingers in him he’s shamelessly rocking into it, mouth open in a constant whine, struggling to keep his eyes open but determined to continue watching like he’s supposed to. The flush on his face is as much from embarrassment as it is from arousal – he’s never had to see this before, the way he looks when he’s strung out and writhing, trying to get more of Cas inside him.

Cas withdraws his hand, and the emptiness, the lack of stimulation, is disappointing, but the thought of what’s next has Dean practically crawling out of his skin with anticipation. He hears the bottle click open again, can see the movement Cas’s hand and knows he’s slicking himself up. He watches fervently, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he shuffles his knees further apart.

Cas settles on top of him, kisses his neck, his ear, his cheek, hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and looks at him in the mirror. “I want you so badly,” he says, one hand soothingly stroking his stomach, holding him in place, and Dean shivers at the deep, rumbling timbre of his voice. Dean knows perfectly well how Cas feels about him – Cas has made sure of that – but that spoken proof of his desire, as tangible as the feeling of Cas’s cock pressing against him, is still thrilling.

Dean’s nearing the end of his patience. “ _Yes_ ,” he gasps, “God, Cas, _please_ , please,” he’s too far gone to be ashamed of the way he’s begging, even when he can actually _see_ own mouth forming each plea, the desperation in his eyes.

“Please what, Dean?” Cas prompts, not smug or teasing, only gently encouraging. “What do you want?”

Dean used to have a hard time voicing his desires, admitting that he wanted this, and he’s mostly past that now, but it still fuckin’ _turns him on_ when Cas makes him ask for it. He knows Cas likes it too – seeing Dean stripped of his macho posturing, totally undone and at Cas’s mercy, unable to hide what he wants and trusting Cas enough to give it to him.

Dean meets his eyes in the mirror. “Fuck me,” he says, nearly choking with arousal, “God, _please_.”

Cas kisses his jaw, humming in acceptance and shifting the panties aside again. Dean’s heart is pounding as Cas lines himself up, nudging against him, but he relaxes into Cas’s hold, the fingers on his hip keeping him settled. Dean’s whimpering constantly as Cas pushes inside of him, the stretch and burn intense but unbelievably satisfying. They both groan when Cas bottoms out, their hips pressed flush together, Dean feeling exquisitely full, gratified by the ache.

He catches sight of what’s in the mirror – his pink cheeks and wet open mouth, Cas unyielding on top of him, _inside_ of him and _fuck_ , that’s too much. He stutters out a gasp, head dropping forward, eyes squeezing shut.

Cas doesn’t say anything about Dean’s slip-up, but it’s possible that he’s a bit distracted himself. After a few moments Dean feels Cas’s hands snake underneath his chest, cradling him carefully as he hauls him upright. Cas shifts back to sit on his heels, Dean firmly situated in his lap, as he slides his fingers along Dean’s throat. “Eyes on the mirror, Dean.”

Dean hesitates – he can see so much _more_ now – but he locks eyes with Cas, drawn in by his gaze, both comforted and excited by the scrutiny.

Cas traces Dean’s fluttering pulse with the pad of his thumb, rasps, “Good,” in response to Dean’s compliance, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Dean’s lighting up at the warm approval in Cas’s voice, emboldened by it, even more eager to please than before. He tries to take a good look at himself in the mirror, stay focused even as Cas begins to rock his hips in a steady, unbroken rhythm, eliciting another strained whimper.

Dean hadn’t lingered for too long on his appearance, earlier, when he’d changed and checked himself out in the bathroom – he never does, with this kind of thing, too anxious to rush past the confusing, sometimes inscrutable emotions and onto more enjoyable activities – but the picture he makes now is a lot more to handle.

His skin’s flushed a deep red, all the way down to his chest, stopping where his stomach rises and falls with deep, labored breaths. He’s so hard, too overcome with arousal to even fit in his panties anymore, leaking steadily against his belly.

The sight of Cas’s hands on him is intoxicating, strong fingers soothingly tracing his neck, his chest, clutching his hips in an iron grip, tight enough to leave bruises they’ll both admire tomorrow.

Cas is driving into him with single-minded focus now, zeroing in on Dean’s prostate and grinding against it relentlessly. Dean’s always prided himself on being an attentive partner in bed, but Cas blows him right outta the fuckin’ water and frankly, Dean’s learned to enjoy being on the other side of things. Dean knows that Cas isn’t concerned about getting himself off right now, only ruthlessly determined to bring Dean over the edge, and he’s starting to feel like that might happen pretty damn soon.

He’s panting loudly now, overcome – Cas is so deep inside him, circling his hips with confident precision. He’s holding Dean so tightly, and Dean’s through with denying how the feeling of Cas’s strong arms encircling him, guiding him firmly each time Cas pushes inside, turns him on like nobody’s goddamn business.

All thoughts of being self-conscious are rapidly disintegrating under Cas’s attentions. Dean gives himself another once over – the panties stretched over his cock, his blushing face and bitten lips, the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead – and finds Cas’s eyes in the mirror because _yeah_ , shit, if Cas can look at him like _that_ then he must look pretty fuckin’ _good_.

Dean gives into it, reveling in the bliss of Cas deep inside him, hands and lips leaving no part of him neglected. And then Cas starts talking.

“You’re so perfect for me,” he murmurs, kissing Dean tenderly on the cheek, the shell of his ear. He keeps up the pace of his rolling hips, languid but unrelenting, voice dipping into a growl. “You’re so _good_.”

This time the praise makes Dean falter, eyes widening fractionally. He recognizes the change in tone, in the weight of emphasis. This isn’t a perfunctory response for Dean’s compliance, for stripping down, dressing up and dropping to his knees – it’s not his… _behavior_ that’s good, it’s _him_ , and that’s a pill Dean’s always had a tough time swallowing.

“Cas—” he attempts, warningly, but Cas keeps going.

“You’re so beautiful,” Cas breathes, sounding enraptured, eyes never straying from Dean’s.

Dean knows Cas likes the look of him, certainly finds him attractive in an aesthetic sense, but that Cas is probably talking about his… his fucking _soul_ or something, and Dean can’t begin to understand how Cas could find that part of him beautiful. Dean doesn’t think Cas can actually _see_ his soul anymore, but Cas insists that he can still sense it, has waxed poetic about its supposed purity and brilliance, made Dean squirm with the depth of his sincerity. Dean had reacted with typical tact – deflecting with a callous brush off, a self-deprecating joke, even arguing or flat-out ignoring it – the first few times Cas had spoken of the beauty he saw inside of him. He was uncomfortable with what Cas was saying – that someone who’s done the things he’s done could have a shred of goodness or light left within him – easily writing it off as untrue or ridiculous. He was even more uncomfortable with how much he wanted to believe it, how it made his heart pound, alleviated the oppressive burden constantly bearing down on his shoulders. It’s still hard to look inside himself and see what Cas sees. But trusting that _Cas_ believes it to be true, sincerely means every word of his adulation – that part he’s getting the hang of.

He stifles the protest that was about to escape, soldiering on past the feelings of unease, and focuses on the soothing cadence of Cas’s voice, the reluctant sense of euphoria he gets from Cas’s unabashed adoration.

Cas is speeding up now, thrusting into Dean at a devastating angle that leaves him gasping. “So gorgeous,” he says, breath hitching.  “I can’t take my eyes off of you.” His hand slides up along Dean’s throat, thumb tracing his jaw. “Do you see, Dean? Do you see how beautiful you are?”

Dean’s eyes flutter shut, helpless against the onslaught of sensation – Cas’s words ringing in his ears, his cock moving perfectly inside of him.

“Answer me,” Cas prompts, giving Dean’s hair a gentle tug to get his attention, and Dean moans, his own cock twitching hard in his delicate panties, as he catches Cas’s eyes in the mirror again. Cas’s voice is soft but no less commanding, and Dean can never resist when Cas is authoritative.

Maybe he can’t truly recognize what Cas sees, but he’s beginning to understand it – beginning to feel it, as he lets the persistent thrum of pleasure overshadow the shame and doubt, embracing the side of himself that revels in submission, even when some insidious, internal voices still want to shout in protest. He _feels_ beautiful giving himself over to Cas, putting his trust in him, being taken apart and put back together again.

“Yeah, yes,” he gasps, barely managing to form the words.

Cas smiles at him, all but glowing with pride, and Dean gasps again as his desire spikes even further. He’s already walking the razor’s edge of pleasure, has been teetering near the brink for longer than he can even comprehend. He’s dizzy with the feeling of the soft cotton against his cock, Cas rocking inside of him, one hand gripping his hip, pulling the fabric even tighter, dragging against him each time Cas presses forward. Dean’s been wondering if it’s enough to bring him off, and all at once it’s starting to seem like it _definitely_ could be.

Dean’s watching closely in the mirror, but he’s not fully prepared for Cas shifting his grip, the sensation of one large hand snaking forward to press hot against where Dean’s aching. Cas palms him gently, just barely moving his fingers up and down, but Dean’s so hard it fucking _hurts_ and oh, _oh_ —

“ _Cas_ ,” he whimpers urgently. God, he’s so _close_ but he’s trying to hold off and, well, Cas hasn’t explicitly told him he needs permission, but – if Dean’s being honest, he likes being told to wait, gets such a thrill when Cas tells him _no_ until he’s well past what he thought he’d be able to stand. Dean’s not expecting a no from Cas tonight – he seems to be in an indulgent mood, not withholding any of his affections from Dean even if they’re a lot to handle – but Dean’s still desperate for a _yes_ , to put control of his pleasure totally in Cas’s hands, tip over the edge at the reassuring sound of his voice.

He looks pleadingly into Cas’s eyes, tries speaking again, “I—” he breaks off with a whine, “I’m—”

The heat in Cas’s gaze is scorching, so intense Dean can practically feel it burning him up. “Do it,” Cas bites out, and Dean can hear the fraying control in his voice. “I want to _watch_. I want _you_ to watch.”

Cas’s hand is moving faster against Dean’s cock now, stroking him firmly through the gauzy material. Dean moans shakily, louder each time Cas pushes inside of him with uncompromising purpose. He’s unraveling quickly now that Cas has given him license to – the pleasure’s building more rapidly than he can keep up with, going pliant in Cas’s arms. He can scarcely keep his eyes on the mirror, though he’s trying, but it’s so _good_ , god, he’s _right there_ —      

“That’s it, Dean,” Cas purrs into his ear, “Let go for me.”

Dean clutches at Cas’s arm, the muscle of his own thigh, bracing himself as climax rushes through him. He can’t keep his eyes open but he knows Cas is drinking him in, watching with rapt attention and murmuring encouragement as Dean is overwhelmed with pleasure at his hands – coming with a harsh gasp, groaning noisily, not even caring how he sounds, streaking his belly and Cas’s long fingers.

He sags further into Cas’s hold, still whining in the back of his throat, trembling with the aftershocks. Cas isn’t relenting at all, and Dean lets out tiny, punched-out sounds, oversensitive every time Cas’s cock drives into him, dragging against his prostate.

Dean’s strung-out and exhausted, but he forces his eyes back to the mirror, careful to avoid his own reflection but concentrating intently on watching Cas. He’s suddenly desperate to see Cas like this – eyes shut tight, face pressed to Dean’s shoulder, focused on chasing his own climax now that Dean’s been satisfied.

“ _Dean,_ ” Cas growls, and Dean won’t _ever_ get tired of the way Cas says his name – especially in moments like this, hearing that tangible proof that Cas isn’t unaffected, will put on that façade of levelheaded control to make things good for him. Cas is holding him even tighter now, fucking him with forceful single-mindedness, and Dean’s spent but it still feels goddamn amazing.

Cas groans his name again, losing all sense of rhythm in his movements, clearly right on the edge. Dean watches in anticipation, gasps as Cas scrapes his teeth along the nape of his neck, and they both moan as Cas tenses and comes, pressing in deep and spilling inside of him. Dean shudders at each pulse and twitch, Cas gliding slickly in and out a few more times as he slows to a stop.

Cas is still for a few moments, breathing raggedly in Dean’s ear, before withdrawing, and Dean whimpers at the feeling of Cas’s come slipping out of him, smearing his panties as Cas slides them back into place. Cas keeps him firmly wrapped in his embrace, dropping gentle kisses on his neck and stroking his stomach with slow, soothing touches, not at all concerned about dragging his fingertips through the mess on Dean’s skin.

Dean can’t bear to look at the mirror anymore, feeling raw and overexposed without the undercurrent of arousal to keep him distracted. He’s still shakily coming down from his high and he knows Cas is trying to cradle him into a soft landing, wiping his hand and Dean’s abdomen clean with careful efficiency and urging Dean to lie down. Cas patiently maneuvers them until they’re facing each other, scant inches between them, in each other’s space the way they both crave in these moments.

Cas tenderly kisses his cheeks, his mouth, his temple, strong fingertips kneading the muscles in his back. Dean keeps his eyes closed, not ready to open them and fully process reality.

“You were incredible,” Cas murmurs between kisses, cupping his jaw, “So good for me.”

Dean sucks in a breath. He tries to let Cas’s compliments and worshipful touches wash over him, but… _after_ is still tough for Dean, sometimes. Cas’s praise feels nice, it really does, but it’s turning a bit sour in his stomach – the doubt, the unwillingness to accept such devotion creeping back in as the rush of orgasm fades. He doesn’t exactly shy away from Cas’s words – he’s nearly out of his head with how badly he wants to give into them – but Cas’s insistent adoration is struggling to win out over his own self-loathing, and Dean flounders, caught in the middle. He stiffens in Cas’s arms, shaky fingers digging into the solid flesh of Cas’s shoulder.

The litany of endearments abruptly stops, and Dean feels the silence like a lead weight in his gut. Of course Cas has noticed that something isn’t right.

“Dean,” Cas says softly. “Look at me,” he insists, fingers carding through Dean’s hair.

He’s so calm, so patient, but so _absolute_ in his request that Dean doesn’t think twice about complying.

Cas’s gaze is tinged with concern, but not real worry – it’s not the first time something like this has happened, that Cas has urged Dean to such heights that the descent leaves him unsettled, in need of reassurance. What Dean really notices is the unwavering _reverence_ in Cas’s eyes, the passion there steadfast despite the fact that Dean’s being _difficult_ again, and that’s what Dean was afraid to see, what had him screwing his own eyes shut in the first place, trying to block it out.

“What is it?” Cas asks, still soothing Dean with soft words and languid touches.

Dean almost blurts out a reflexive apology and denial, but that’s not what Cas wants to hear. He shakes his head. “You’re,” he hesitates, not sure what to say, but all at once he’s bitterly muttering, “You’re so good to me,” gritting it out before he can stop himself, totally stripped of any verbal filters now that Cas has so thoroughly taken him apart. He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, doesn’t want to sound _ungrateful_ , even if he’s anxious and confused, wavering between euphoria and discomfort. “You’re so _good_ to me, I don’t—” he stops himself before he starts babbling, because he’s been trying so hard all night to hold it together, to keep the stream of protests and self-deprecation at bay, and he’s dangerously close to ruining everything.

Cas just holds him, doesn’t balk at the turmoil that must show in Dean’s expression or appear offended by his words. He takes Dean’s face in his hands and waits until Dean stops averting his gaze, his eyes darting away with shame. Dean finally concedes and looks at Cas because he _wants_ to, despite his resistance – he wants to soak up the naked affection on Cas’s face without having a crisis over it. He knows how good it feels. He just wishes that getting there was a little easier.

Cas is only quiet for a moment, watching him intently, and when he speaks again, it’s with the gentle, resolute sincerity that never fails to pull Dean through these instances of doubt. “You deserve that, Dean,” he says, and Dean forces himself not to look away. He’s not sure he could if he tried, anyway. “You deserve to feel good,” he kisses Dean softly and Dean whines into it. “You deserve to have everything you want, and I’m humbled and _honored_ that you’d let me give that to you,” he says with uncompromising certainty that Dean recognizes, determination for Dean to understand and accept that he’s worthy of these attentions, that doing this means something to Cas too.

And _Jesus_ , who the hell is he to argue? Cas has lived longer and seen more than Dean can possibly fathom – that he’d find anything about Dean remarkable in any way still feels like a cruel impossibility, but Cas believes it and _goddammit_ , Dean wants to believe it too.

Cas is looking at him expectantly, awaiting acknowledgment that his words have sunk in. Dean squares his jaw and manages a tight nod, and even that is hard to do but it’s so unbelievably worth it for the smile he sees on Cas’s face. The way Cas’s eyes soften like he’s so _proud_ of him is the best motivation he could possibly ask for.

He’s not even fully aware of the tears until Cas is already wiping them away with his thumbs, pressing his lips to the tracks they’ve left on Dean’s cheeks. Dean shifts closer until he can bury his face against Cas’s neck, overwhelmed. Cas lets him stay there for a moment, stroking his hair and crooning praise into his ear, before tilting Dean’s face back up until their eyes meet.

“I love you,” Cas says with ease but no lack of conviction, tenderly caressing Dean’s face and pinning him with the weight of his gaze.

Dean blinks hard, trying to clear his vision where it’s gone blurry with renewed emotion. It hasn’t been long since Cas started actually _saying_ those words, but hearing them doesn’t make him want to run and hide. It makes him feel fucking invincible.

Dean puts a hand to Cas’s cheek, feeling the rough stubble under his palm, resolutely meeting his eyes. “Me too, Cas,” he says with urgency, wanting to be clear how sincerely he means it, that he isn’t shying away. “Love you too,” he adds in a rush before he loses the nerve to actually say it aloud, surging forward and firmly pressing his lips to Cas’s.

When they part, Cas pulls him right back in, tucking Dean’s head under his chin. Dean relaxes against Cas’s chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the calming, familiar smell of him. For a while they just lie there quietly, legs entwined, clinging to one another, craving the grounding touch of calloused fingertips on each other’s skin. Dean’s mind is pleasantly hazy now, ugly thoughts retreating further with each sweep of Cas’s fingers.

Sometime later – Dean really can’t keep track, nearly dozing off at this point – Cas kisses the top of his head, murmurs, “Okay?” into his hair.

“M’fuckin’ awesome,” Dean slurs into Cas’s collarbone, unable to better articulate it. He doesn’t have the words for how his heart could burst at how good, how cared for and loved he feels, safe in Cas’s arms. He’d probably be too embarrassed to say it anyway.

Cas chuckles lightly, and Dean smiles at the sound of it. He’d be content to fall asleep like this, but a shower might be in order, and just as he’s thinking longingly of the gigantic tub in the bathroom, Cas speaks up again.

“I’ve been wondering if that bath is big enough for two,” Cas says conversationally. Dean can’t help but laugh – there Cas goes reading his mind again – and Cas smiles down at him. “Shall we find out?”

Dean has to stifle the giddy laughter that suddenly bubbles up within him, pulling back enough to look Cas in the eye. “Oh _hell_ yes,” he says with a lazy grin, as if there is any goddamn _question_ that they should do that. Dean would be practically skipping out of bed at the idea, but he’s so sated he’s nearly comatose.

They take their time getting there. Dean may be half-jelly, but Cas seems to have retained more of his higher brain functions, coaxing Dean upright with steady hands and ushering him into the bathroom.

Cas gets the water running and gathers Dean close while they wait, kissing him indulgently. The urgency of unfulfilled lust is gone now, but the passion remains, unwavering in its intensity. Dean melts into it, practically purring at the feeling of Cas’s mouth plush against his own, palms resting reassuringly on his back.  

Cas slips his hands lower, settling on Dean’s hips, fingertips teasingly skimming the lace. He draws back and glances down between them. “I think it’s time we took these off,” he says with a patient smile, gently tugging on the elastic.

Dean feels an absurd urge to refuse, but he follows Cas’s gaze, flushing at the state the panties are in. He had a hell of a good time making a mess of them but _Christ,_ they are definitely looking a bit worse for wear.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “You think, uh,” he pauses, trying to sound casual. “You think they’re, y’know, uh… out of commission?” He immediately feels silly for asking, but… they were a gift and he really _likes_ them. He’s really hoping they’re not _totally_ ruined.

Cas hums thoughtfully as he inches the fabric down Dean’s thighs. “I’ll take care of it,” Cas replies, leaning closer to murmur into his ear. “I can always buy you more,” he says warmly, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek, trailing down his jaw, lips soft on his neck. “Any kind you want.”

Dean smiles and tilts his head, baring his throat to Cas’s attentive mouth, mind reeling with the possibilities.

The water’s bracingly hot when they step in – just shy of too intense, exactly the way Dean likes it. Dean sighs appreciatively as they settle into position, Cas a solid, comforting presence seated behind him. He relaxes into Cas’s hold, inhaling the rising steam and the soothing scent of the complimentary bath gel, lulled by the minute lapping of the water.

Before he can nod off he lets Cas press him forward, strong fingers kneading the stiff muscles in Dean’s back. Dean’s pleased groan freakin’ _echoes_ off the tile, jarringly loud to his ears, but he really can’t bring himself to be self-conscious about it. By the time Cas starts massaging shampoo into his hair, Dean’s completely pliant at his touch, mind blissfully blank, eyes closed in absolute contentment.

Dean doesn’t know how long they stay there, how long he dozes in Cas’s arms. He doesn’t notice that the water’s going cold until Cas is reaching forward to unstop the drain, urging him to stand and step out onto the tile.

He’s perfectly capable of drying himself off, but he lets Cas do it anyway. By now any shallow, affected protests have been completely driven from his head. He closes his eyes as Cas carefully runs the soft cloth over his skin, wraps the towel around his waist and pulls him closer with it, pressing their mouths together. He focuses on how damn _good_ it feels to let Cas take care of him, tries to file it away for later, for the next time he overthinks and self-sabotages – when he won’t let himself accept that he _likes_ this and that he’s allowed to have it, that Cas likes to give it to him.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Cas asks. He keeps his tone light, the vestiges of a smile on his face, but Dean knows how much the answer really means to him.

Dean’s fighting a dopey grin and swaying where he stands, damn near light-headed from soaking up Cas’s affections. To say he _enjoyed_ himself would be a tremendous understatement. Dean can only nod and hum in agreement, pulling Cas closer, but the relief and pride in Cas’s expression is obvious.

Cas abandons the towel and frames Dean’s face in his hands, undisguised tenderness in his eyes as he looks at Dean intently. Dean isn’t afraid of what he sees. He lifts his hands and returns the gesture, meeting Cas’s gaze steadily.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Dean says, after a few quiet, charged moments pass. He knows Cas understands, that those two words don’t just contain his gratitude for the gift, or even for tonight but for _everything_ , for everything Cas has done and will keep on doing, as long as Dean will allow him. Dean’s not about to ask him to stop.

Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean doesn’t need him to. The way Cas holds him tightly, the honest, raw emotion evident in each fervent kiss, are more than enough.

They’re both quiet as they climb into bed, warm and dry, wrapped up in the smooth, inviting sheets. Cas easily slots in behind Dean, molds himself to his back and snakes an arm around his waist, pressing one last kiss to the nape of his neck. Dean fits his hand over Cas’s where it’s resting against his belly, so close to drifting off but almost reluctant to miss a moment. It’s not long before finally succumbs to sleep, soothed by the gentle rise and fall of Cas’s chest, dreaming of white beaches and Cas’s blue, blue eyes.

 

Dean wakes in a tangle of limbs and soft bedding, the hypnotic sound of crashing waves faint in the distance. He’s of no inclination to move – unwilling, for now, to relinquish the feeling of Cas’s arms tight around him, heartbeat steady beneath Dean’s cheek. Cas doesn’t appear any more motivated, mouth lazily brushing Dean’s temple, soothing fingers petting every inch of Dean’s skin that he can reach. He murmurs adoration into the scant spaces between them and Dean closes his eyes, accepting it gladly, no room for shame or hesitation in this moment, surrounded completely by downy blankets and Cas’s unwavering devotion. With the two of them sequestered, safe and intimate in this bed, Dean can only lean into every tender caress, Cas’s words settling in his belly, warming him more thoroughly than the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. He’s full of a contentment he didn’t know he was worthy or even _capable_ of experiencing. He feels _freer_ today, that oppressive weight – the one that’s been steadily lightening since the very first time Cas kissed him – practically non-existent. Even in the light of day he’s not embarrassed about snuggling close to Cas, needy for his touch, luxuriating in the strong hands stroking his back, threading through his hair.

They slept late into the morning, and Dean’s already lost track of how long they’ve stayed like this, content to remain dozing in each other’s embrace.There’s no place he’d rather be right now, burrowed under warm blankets and wrapped up in Cas’s arms. But before much longer, the chatter of other hotel guests outside their door and the laughter of happy beach-goers reminds him that there is actually a world beyond their cozy little bubble. They’re in another damn _country_ , as a matter of fact, and Cas sort of had a point about how they should take advantage of the time they spend here. That’s not actually enough to get him up and at ‘em, comfortable as he is, but his growling stomach – Cas’s too – drives them both sluggishly to their feet. If he’s going to make the most of this “European vacation” deal, food doesn’t seem like a bad place to start.

Dean’s too hungry to be experimental, perfectly happy to go back to the café from the day before – he didn’t exactly have any complaints about their last visit. The ocean view is just as stunning as it was yesterday, ocean near-blinding as it sparkles in the sun, but Dean hardly notices. Apparently he turned into a total fuckin’ _sap_ overnight, too, because he can’t take his damn eyes off of Cas right now.  Dean used to get his back up over Cas’s _staring_ – hell, he still calls it creepy sometimes, but that’s always been a cover-up for the way it makes his heart pound and his face flush – and here he is pulling the same shit. But he’s wasted so much time telling himself _not_ to look, not to give himself away or dare to hope for something he’d been failing to convince himself he didn’t want. Dean _gets_ to look now – gets to _touch_ , and be touched, as often as he likes, and _son of a bitch_ , he still has no idea how he got so lucky.

Dean nearly jumps when Cas’s eyes suddenly lock with his, fixing him with a look so _fond_ that it makes his stomach flip, his breath hitch.  Dean can’t deny that he likes it, but he can only bear the intensity of it for so long – more vulnerable here in the daylight, with people bustling around him. So he lets his eyes wander, dropping to admire Cas’s unshaven jawline, his white teeth, lips drawn back in a smile. He tracks the movement of Cas’s hands as he takes the last honeyed fig from his plate and pops it into his mouth. Cas’s tongue darts out, licking away the lingering stickiness from the pad of his thumb, and Dean shifts in his seat, mind instantly taken back to last night. Cas drags his finger through a drizzle of honey on the ceramic and Dean licks his lips involuntarily.

Suddenly Dean realizes that Cas is watching him, and Cas meets his gaze wearing a slight but _suggestive_ smile that says he knows exactly what’s on Dean’s mind. Dean blushes at being caught out – shamelessly staring, briefly entertaining the notion of sucking Cas’s fingers into his mouth _right at the goddamn table_ – but as he turns away, neck burning under the midday sun, he’s got a smile on his face, too.

Now that he’s managed to tear his eyes away from Cas, he takes a moment to admire the shimmering blue sea stretched out in front of him, helplessly drawn in by the sibilance of the crashing waves. The ocean’s practically calling his name – he’s itching to get back in the water, to lay out on the white sand with his mind blissfully blank, Cas at his side.

“We could go back to the beach today, if you’d like,” Cas says with a touch of amusement in his voice, no doubt picking up on the way Dean’s gazing longingly at the horizon.  

Dean throws a delighted grin Cas’s way – he’s not about to pretend he’s not eager – and Cas smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners. Dean might be staring again.          

Cas leans back from the table, beginning to push his chair away. “Shall we go change?” he asks, and shit, Dean had already been looking forward to this, but now he’s nearly twitchy with anticipation, remembering how Cas looks in those tiny swim trunks. He just hopes he can maintain his composure long enough to actually make it out of the hotel room – though it wouldn’t be a terrible tragedy if he couldn’t.

They stay at the beach for hours, gamely dipping into the pounding surf and laying out on the pristine sand until the sun’s nearly dipping below the waterline. Sunbathing really suits Cas – he’s looking more like a bronzed Adonis than ever – while Dean, on the other hand, is praying he avoided horrendous sunburn. He’s mostly fair and freckly, used to working the graveyard shift in _actual graveyards_ and spending his off hours in an honest-to-god underground bunker – not to mention he’d never spent a day at the beach in his damn _life_ before yesterday. But he’s been slathered head to toe in SPF fuckin’ 5000, and Cas had been so _thorough_ in applying (and re-applying, and _re-_ reapplying), so Dean figures he’s probably survived the afternoon unscathed. A little sunburn would be a small price to pay for how much he’s enjoyed himself, anyway. He spots a few new freckles on his forearm and can only imagine how many have cropped up on his face. Cas will probably point them out to him later, kiss every new one that he finds.

Dean hums happily, curling closer to Cas, head tucked up under his chin. They’d wandered off the main drag today, away from the crowds, in search of something more secluded. Dean’s not convinced that this isn’t someone’s private property, but being able to lie next to Cas, sheltered from prying eyes, he’s not feeling too guilty about it. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time they’d broken the rules. Cas’s arm is curled protectively over Dean’s back, and Dean’s briefly amused by the idea that both of them might be getting awkward tan lines from staying in this position for too long. Then he’s contemplating Cas’s hand pressed tight to his shoulder, and he’s not so amused anymore, imagining the pale shape of it being left behind on his skin, remembering the mark that’s no longer there. He tamps down a sudden rush of emotion, not ashamed but unwilling to dwell on it, at the moment. He looks at his hand – also newly freckled – splayed over Cas’s chest, and entertains the idea of leaving his own handprint, right over Cas’s heart.

He pushes the thought aside, begins picturing an outline of his damn _face_ covering Cas’s sternum and he snorts at the idea, (and shifts a little lower, just in case), back to finding the whole thing funny.

Cas perks up at the sound of Dean laughing, threads his fingers through Dean’s hair and sits up on his elbows to look down at him smirking against Cas’s stomach. “What is it?” Cas asks with a quirk of his lips, willing to be amused along with Dean, even if he isn’t in on the joke yet.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says with a dismissive laugh, rolling further onto his front so he can look up at Cas. “Just thinking,” he explains, and Cas nods in understanding.

They’re both quiet for a moment, Dean lounging on top of Cas, still smiling. But Cas looking down at him like this, fingers gentle on the back of his head, sets Dean’s mind to wandering – he can’t keep his mouth away from the taut, golden skin beneath him, kisses his way down to where that obscene swimsuit is slung dangerously low on Cas’s hips. Cas tastes like sunscreen and seawater but Dean couldn’t give less of a shit, wants more of whatever he can get.

“You know,” he says slyly, fingers already sneaking forward to pluck at the drawstring on Cas’s shorts, just barely slipping under the waistband. “There’s no one else here. We could, uh…” he trails off vaguely, bravado faltering just a bit. As _free_ as he’s feeling this morning, as much as he likes to think he’s a self-assured hedonist when it comes to this kind of stuff, articulating his desires is still a stumbling block. He inches Cas’s swimsuit just a tiny bit lower, pressing his lips to the skin he exposes – from the look on Cas’s face, he _definitely_ gets the message.

Cas hums in thought, a deep rumble that Dean actually _feels_ beneath him. Cas regards him intently, fingers tightening in Dean’s hair and all of a sudden Dean’s flustered, as if he hadn’t been the one to subtly suggest that he’d be willing to _suck Cas off on a public beach right now_.

“That is certainly tempting,” Cas muses, and Christ, he actually does look tempted. Dean had only been half serious – he wasn’t _really_ expecting Cas to play along, but this could be the plane ride all over again. It’s not a terrible prospect.  “But I’d rather not get arrested for public indecency,” Cas adds, after a beat, with a faint smirk of his own. “I’m quite enjoying myself right now. That would probably spoil the mood.”

Dean doesn’t really think they’re at risk of being caught – unless one of the speedboats zipping around strays a little too close to the shore. “Uh huh,” he says, teasingly non-committal. He doesn’t try to undress Cas any further, but he doesn’t move his hands away either, coyly glancing up at Cas.

Cas arches an eyebrow imperiously. He’s not exactly smiling, but his eyes light up like he’s got a secret. “I hope you can behave yourself,” he says, tone stern but softened by a promising undercurrent of playfulness.

Dean recognizes that comment for what it is – his stomach swoops pleasantly at the implication, at the promise of something more, something _better_ , later, if he listens to Cas and _behaves himself_. He’s more than willing to play along – fucking _eager_ , if he’s honest, to see what Cas has in mind. “I’ll be good,” he says, grinning impishly as he withdraws his hands and flops down on his side next to Cas.

Cas immediately rolls over to face him, hand softly cupping Dean’s cheek. “You always are,” he insists, his lighthearted tone overwhelmed by the sincerity in his eyes and that – that is just the corniest goddamn thing Dean’s ever heard, and it’s testament to how fucking far gone is he that he doesn’t care, can’t even summon up a snarky comment to deflect attention from his suddenly overheated face.

Dean huffs out a short laugh, closing his eyes, and gives into the warmth and exhilaration that he feels being the center of Cas’s attention. He’s the perfect picture of contentment – Cas really is good to him, making sure he’s enjoying himself, the way he always does.

He opens his eyes, surprised to find that Cas’s are shut, and he clears his throat. “Hey, uh,” he says when Cas looks at him. “We’ve done this two days in a row now. Let’s do something you want tomorrow,” he offers. It’s not guilt, exactly, that makes him say it – just an overwhelming gratitude for everything Cas does, for everything he _is_ , that has him suddenly desperate to reciprocate even in some miniscule way. Dean’s finally starting to accept that he’s allowed to have Cas’s devotion – allowed to _want_ it – but he’s no stranger to looking out for the people he cares about either.

Cas blinks and tilts his head, and Dean feels an unstoppable surge of affection. “Did I not just say that I was enjoying myself?” he asks, brow furrowed in what seems to be genuine confusion.

Cas has come a long way in the “people skills” department, but he does still miss the point, sometimes. Dean chuckles fondly, about to clarify, but he falters under Cas’s gaze, the adoration he sees there as Cas sweeps his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone.

“This is what I want,” Cas murmurs, like an intimate secret. “Just to be here with you.”

Dean doesn’t quite manage to roll his eyes good-naturedly, laughing out _that’s not what I meant, you sap_ the way he intends to – dammit, he’s blushing _again_. “I, uh, I just meant,” he pauses for a second, so he can talk without sounding like a love-struck idiot. “Y’know. If there’s something you want to do while we’re here. Something we can’t do at home, like you said.”

Cas just looks at him serenely, mouth turned up at the corners.

“Just think about it,” Dean adds, steadying his voice.

“All right. I will,” Cas says, and laughs quietly. Dean will never get enough of that sound.

It’s not long before Dean’s ready to call it a day. The idea of dinner is sounding pretty damn good right about now. More immediately, he’s anxious to take a shower and scrub himself free of salt, sand and sunscreen.

On the walk back to their room, Dean takes Cas’s hand in his this time. He still feels a flutter of nervousness in his chest, navigating the crowds populating the shoreline, but it’s worth it for the way Cas’s face lights up at the gesture, proud and pleasantly surprised all at once.

It’s mostly quiet until they slow to a stop, waiting for some bikes and a few odd all-terrain vehicles to pass. Dean’s contemplating a rental himself when Cas speaks up again. “I’ve thought about it,” he says, seemingly out of the blue – for a moment Dean thinks Cas was actually reading his thoughts. “About what we could do tomorrow,” he clarifies, obviously reacting to the confusion on Dean’s face. “I noticed a brochure for an archaeological museum in the lobby this morning,” he says slowly, glancing sideways at Dean as they walk, as if he’s gauging Dean’s reaction. “I’d be interested in going.”

Dean can’t really say that would’ve been _his_ first choice of activity, and he probably won’t get the same thrill out of it that Cas will, but it’s not about him. Besides, he can already imagine Cas rattling off a history lesson or reading some Greek inscription in his deep hypnotic voice, herding Dean close by the small of his back to speak in hushed tones about mythological love or artistic, physical perfection. Dean could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon.

“There gonna be nude statues?”

Cas is already smiling softly. “I’d imagine so, yes.”

“Hmm, sounds _educational_ ,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows as Cas laughs. “Hey, maybe we’ll actually learn something useful for the next time some asshole from Olympus gets a bruised ego and starts offing random mortals. Think we can write this trip off as a business expense?”

“We don’t file tax returns, Dean,” Cas says, perfectly deadpan.

Dean restrains himself from affectionately rolling his eyes. “That was a _joke_ , you dork,” he laughs, more fond than exasperated.

Cas raises an eyebrow at him disdainfully, bearing that all too familiar look that says of _course_ I know that was a joke, Dean, give me _some_ credit. “ _You’re_ a dork,” Cas replies, smiling like he’s terribly proud of himself for that comeback. He always did have an endearingly bizarre sense of humor.

Dean’s momentarily stunned out of a response, mostly because of how unexpected (and _lame_ ) that was. He lets out a startled laugh but sobers up quickly when he turns to look at Cas, struck by how goddamn _gorgeous_ Cas looks right now, silhouetted by the glowing sunset.

His more stubbornly ingrained instincts mock him for being such a _sap_ again, urge him to reign in those tender feelings – at least wait until he and Cas are somewhere private if he can’t suppress his _emotions_ entirely. He lays his palm against Cas’s stubbled cheek and kisses him instead.

That may have been a bolder move than he was ready for. The people crowded nearby probably couldn’t care less about what they’re doing, but it still makes Dean _nervous_ , raw and exposed out in the open, in the light of day. His heart’s thumping in his chest for all _kinds_ of reasons, and his hand shakes in Cas’s grip – Cas’s fingers squeeze his, and the trembling diminishes.

Dean pulls back and he can tell Cas wants to follow, press his mouth to Dean’s again, get his hands all over him the way he does when the world isn’t watching. Their fingers stay loosely laced together but he can see the way Cas holds himself back, knows he understands that that wasn’t easy for Dean and doesn’t want to push him. Dean’s so grateful he almost kisses Cas all over again.

Cas just smiles again, that look of affection and _pride_ on his face leaving Dean a little lightheaded with the rush of self-assurance he feels. And to think he was worried about a damn _plane ride_ a couple of days ago.

The road’s been clear to cross for a while now, but neither of them is paying any attention. Cas clears his throat with an oddly shy grin. “I’m not sure how hungry you are,” he says quietly, a hint of suggestiveness creeping into his voice, “But perhaps dinner could wait a while?”

Dean smiles wide – Cas is _so_ speaking his language. Hell, he’s been looking forward to eating (the prospect of food is never a bad one, in his opinion) but he’s one hundred percent certain that the delay will be worth it. “We could just order room service,” he says, remembering Cas’s veiled promises to him at the beach today. Judging by the look of intent he’d seen on Cas’s face – the one that’s returning now, eyes darkening – he may not be _up_ for going out later.

Cas simply hums in agreement and tugs him along a little faster as they finally cross the street, hotel in sight. Dean would tease Cas for his eagerness if he weren’t in entirely the same boat himself.

He’s caught off guard by the realization that he’s actually reluctant to go back home to the States, to everything comfortable and familiar to him. He’s not ready to let this go – this feeling of freedom, of elation, that he’s not used to, Cas’s hand in his, not caring one damn bit that anyone might be watching.

He’s fumbling with the room key and Cas softly kisses his cheek. Another realization hits him: He gets to take all this home with him – if he wants to, if he _chooses_ to let go of bad habits, his learned sense of self-preservation, the kind that would deny him his own happiness.

Dean’s had a lot of tough choices in his life, has actually held the fate of the entire world in his hands. This is a no-brainer if he’s ever heard one. It may not feel easy, even now – he can’t think of a single thing in his life that has been. But Cas smiles at him as the door _finally_ swings open, and he’s never been so sure that some things are _really_ fucking worth the effort. He has all the proof he needs right next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wouldn't write a lot of notes, but I am compelled to say only one thing: I started writing this months ago, before any canon references to beach getaways. Just a happy coincidence with the timing!


End file.
